A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(75)

“Massachusetts,” he muttered, recalling the articles he had read about Zoe. “That’s where you grew up, right?”

“Maynard was my hometown.”

His focus sharpened considerably. “Okay,” he said. “How old were you when that took place?”

“Fourteen.”

“Right. Go ahead.”

“I believe the man who killed those three women back then is the serial killer currently murdering in Chicago.”

“The Strangling Undertaker?” he asked in surprise.

She twisted her lips in displeasure. “I detest that nickname. He is not an undertaker. Just a killer, letting his fantasies and urges take control.”

“A monster.” Harry nodded.

“No.” She leaned forward. “Not a monster. Much worse. A human. One of us. I’ve researched you, Harry Barry.”

Harry winced as she said his full name.

“You like articles that shock and tantalize. More than half your stories are about sex scandals.”

“It’s not what I like. It’s what my readers like.”

“Sure. In any case, you write those tabloid articles . . . but your writing isn’t cheap. You do your research. You don’t fall to clichés, and you give your stories an interesting angle. You take pride in your work.”

“Thank you,” he said warily.

“The Chicago serial killer is not a monster. He isn’t the bogeyman. He’s a very dark person with warped sexual ideas and an obsession with death.”

“Why do you think he’s the same killer as the one in Maynard?” Harry asked.

She narrowed her eyes, and Harry folded his arms. The tension built between them. He wasn’t worried. He held all the cards here. She’d give him the story he was looking for.

“Here’s your coffee,” the waitress said, putting down the cup in front of him.

“Thanks.”

“Do you want anything else? We have—”

“No, thank you,” Harry said. “I have everything I need. Thank you.”

The waitress nodded and left. He sipped from his cup, looking at Zoe. Her face was distant. Some of the worry faded from her posture, she sat straighter. Harry found that concerning.

He cleared his throat, putting the cup on the table. “You were about to explain—”

“Look up what I told you,” she interrupted him. “Start doing your research. I’ll give you the rest of the story in a few days. I promise.”

“You’ll give me the story now, or I go live with what I have.”

“Go ahead. I’ll deny everything. And you’ll have a dumb story no one cares about. Like so many others you’ve written.”

He stared at her. Her eyes met his, piercing, unrelenting. Eyes that could see right through him. And for a moment he became convinced she had read his thoughts, fears, and hopes. That was why she had relaxed. She had watched his behavior, his body language, the way he talked to her and to the waitress, and somehow, she knew he wouldn’t publish the story. “But your investigation will—”

“Like you told me yesterday, it’s not my job to decide what would hurt the investigation. Nor is it yours. You have a taste of the real story. You’ll get the rest in a few days.”

She took out her purse, took out a bill, and slapped it on the table. “The coffee’s on me,” she said, got up, and left.

He looked after her, then at the bill on the table. It was a twenty-dollar bill, when all they’d had were two cups of coffee. He shook his head in amusement. People loved their dramatic exits. He picked up the bill and thumbed his wallet for a crumpled ten-dollar bill, which he laid on the table instead. His mouth stretched in a Cheshire Cat grin. There was a story here. A big story. And hidden inside it was an even bigger story.

The real story wasn’t about the Chicago serial killer or the Maynard serial killer at all. The real story was about Dr. Zoe Bentley.





CHAPTER 53

As she sat in the cab, something alerted Zoe, made her tense up, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as if something buried deep inside her brain were emitting faint warning signs, but she didn’t know what it was warning her about or trying to alert her to. She glanced at the cab driver, concerned, but he was the nicest cab driver she’d ridden with since she’d arrived in Chicago. He was polite, and the only conversation he made was asking for her destination. Was it something about his body language? Something that years as a forensic psychologist had etched into her subconscious? No. That wasn’t it.

She almost felt as if she were being followed. Her mind considered the reporter, Harry Barry. He could have tailed her after their meeting. Would he stoop to following her around?

Of course he would.

She glanced at the rearview mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of his smug face in the cars behind, but he wasn’t there.

She was just sleep deprived. Of course she felt anxious; she was running on fumes.

“There we are,” the driver said.

“Wait here,” Zoe said. “I’ll only be ten minutes.”

He nodded, and she became convinced that whatever had triggered her alert signals, it wasn’t him. She got out and marched into Sorenson’s Plumbing.

The only man in the store was Clifford Sorenson’s employee, Jeffrey. He frowned when he saw her.