What You Don't Know(87)

Or maybe she has to get creative. She did it before, and it got her into Seever’s house, she’d landed the story of the decade. That’s all she needs now. She had to chase it differently from how most people would’ve, but in the end she got what she wanted. Maybe she’s going at it wrong, though. Maybe she needs to stop reporting, and start investigating. Corbin said he’d never publish Weber again if she found out Secondhand’s identity, and she knows he was joking—but what if she did find out?

She rubs her fingernails on the top of the table, making an irritating rasping sound, but she’s so deep in thought she doesn’t hear it. She can’t keep up with Weber, so it’s best to let him go running around the crime scenes, trying to squeeze whatever information he can out of the cops. Let him wear himself out, skipping around in endless circles. She’ll chase this story down, reach between its legs and squeeze till it screams, until it tells her who the Secondhand Killer is.

*

ALBERT Q. THOMAS, the sign above the art gallery’s door says. She’d looked it up at home, flipped through the website, scanning the list of artists who’ve had their work featured there.

Halfway down the list is Jacky Seever.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asks when she steps inside. He’s tall and serious-looking, with a thick beard, the kind that makes it hard to tell how old he is but also makes most men look like crazed lumberjacks. This man is no exception. “I’m about to close up shop for the night.”

“Oh, I’ll be quick,” she says, smiling so big her cheeks ache. “I saw online that you sell Jacky Seever’s work.”

There’s a pause, a long one, and she thinks she might’ve said the wrong thing but she can’t be too sure, this man has a poker face, more like a dead face, and she can’t figure out what he’s thinking.

“You a cop?”

“What? No. Why do you ask?”

The man narrows his eyes at her.

“I had this cop stop by earlier asking the same thing,” he says. “He had all kinds of questions about Seever.”

Loren, she thinks. Hoskins has been busy at the crime scene.

“So, you do sell Seever’s stuff?”

“I used to,” he says slowly. He grabs the flap of his ear and rubs it. “I haven’t lately, though. There used to be a lot of interest in his work, those things were flying outta here like hotcakes, but that petered out after a while. I’ve had a few calls in the last few weeks asking if I have any of his work—Seever’s wife brought in a few pieces last week and they sold for quite a bit, but the good stuff would go for a lot more. And I could sure as hell use the cash.”

“‘Good stuff’?” Sammie asks, genuinely puzzled. “What’s that?”

“Oh, when Seever first started it was all blood and gore. Sexual. Portraits of his victims. Morbid stuff, but it sold fast, and for a lot. But then it was all landscapes and bowls of fruit, and people stopped buying.”

“No interest in fruit?” she asks wryly.

“Oh, people would buy a square of toilet paper if they think Seever wiped it on his ass. Especially with these new murders going on.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says blandly, staring out at the nearly empty parking lot. “That’s all it takes. A few dead women and people are constantly calling for Seever’s stuff. I should’ve started killing a long time ago.”

She blinks, tilts her head to one side as she looks at him.

“Not that I’ve ever killed anyone,” he says when he notices her watching. His neck had gone blotchy red. “That would be crazy.”

She drums her fingers on the counter and looks around, tries to think while she keeps an eye on the guy behind the counter. His words might not mean anything, he might’ve just been thinking out loud, but you could never be too safe. Cold, hard cash was as good a reason as any to kill, and she’d have to mention this guy to Hoskins, make sure the cops were keeping an eye on him. The gallery is small, dingy, the art on display covered in dust. It’s a business in desperate need of a few good sales.

“You sure you’re not a cop?” the man says, yanking on his beard. He seems nervous.

She tilts her head, considering.

“I’m not with the police, I’m with the paper,” she says, “I’m writing a piece on Jacky Seever, and the new Secondhand Killer. And if you can help in any way—well, I’d appreciate it.”

He looks down at her hand like she’s a strange bug he’d never encountered before, and she wonders if she’s going about this all wrong.

“How could I help you?”

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Simon.”

“You’re not Albert?”

“That was my dad.”

“Okay, Simon. You mentioned you get calls about Seever’s work?”

“Yeah. Quite a few lately, since these new murders started up.” He taps his knuckles on the counter. “For a long time it’s just been one guy. Same dude, every week. He calls and asks if I have anything new from Seever. Every week, never fails. Anytime there’s a piece available he buys it over the phone, has me ship it to him.”

“One guy?”

“Yep. Same one, all the time. He must have a real hard-on for Seever.”