The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(45)

She opened the email from her anonymous source who’d tipped her to the war on drugs and given her today’s scoop. Drug dealer shot dead in Chicago.

Cindy had the feeling that this was another Zodiac or Son of Sam, other serial killers who’d buddied up to the press. This time it was serial killers, plural. But who were they, and why and how were the shooters and their intended victims chosen? She wanted to read the email again, this time looking for dropped breadcrumbs or any lead that she had missed.

He had written, “If you’re part of the problem and value your life, stop selling drugs now whatever it costs you. Destroy your product and get straight.

“Or spin the wheel. You’ll never know when your number comes up.”

Spin the wheel was an odd phrase. Was it his manner of speech? Was it something meaningful? She’d like to know.

That’s when it hit her.

Her source had written to her. And he had called her.

Her return call to the burner phone had failed, but she hadn’t written back to him.

She had to do that, and if she made a good enough pitch, maybe he’d write back. Maybe she could sell him on her being his press conduit to the world. She was known. The Chronicle had reach. Tyler was a friend and mentor. It was a good idea.

But before she fired off her return email, she wanted to think about it some more.

Cindy opened her blog and her mail, checked every feed in the US and abroad, noting how much coverage the sniper killings had drawn.

She also detected something else that surprised her. The public was cheering on the vigilantes. When she opened the comments section on her blog, that same unexpected element was present. Readers were thinking that the shooters who were picking off drug dealers were the good guys.

She left her office deep in thought, headed toward the coffee station. McGowan was outside his cubicle, standing with his back to her. He was chatting with a pretty, young intern.

He was talking about her.

“Cindy does a good yeoman’s job,” McGowan said. “She has ten years in grade here, so she knows what she’s doing, but she has no style. She’s not a writer’s writer, if you know what I mean.”

“A hack, you’re saying?” said the intern.

McGowan laughed. “Right word. Exactly.”

Cindy had to decide quickly.

Show McGowan that she’d overheard him? Or hold it back for a better, more pivotal time? She walked around him to the coffee station, poured herself a paper cup of hazelnut bold, feeling the back of her neck getting hot.

She heard McGowan calling out to her over the din of the newsroom. He was saying, “Cindy. Cindy, I want you to meet Robin Boyd. She just started working here as an intern. Her father works for—”

“Nice to meet you, Robin. McGowan. Get to work. I want those profiles, every one of them, before noon. Show me what kind of writer you are. Try not to let down the team.”





CHAPTER 67





CLAIRE’S ROOM WAS lined with flowers of all heights and colors, grouped on the windowsills, in a row along the chair rail across from her bed, and there were bunches of get-well cards woven into the slats of the window blinds.

I was so glad to see her. When she smiled and stretched out her hand, I went to her, gave her a long, gentle hug.

“Be careful of my lifelines,” she said of the tubes running hither and thither from IV bags, into and out of her thin cotton hospital gown.

“Bossy even now,” I said, moving a big chair up to her bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been run over by a team of horses. Those Budweiser ones. Clyde-somethings.”

I laughed with her, picturing that.

“Well, they didn’t trample your sense of humor.”

“No, thank God. I need it, but I’ll tell you a little secret.”

“What’s that?”

She signaled me to come close. I moved in so my ear was almost against her mouth.

“You can ask me anything,” she said. “I’m so doped up, I’ll spill all my beans.”

I paused to wonder if she had any secrets that I hadn’t already discovered over the last dozen years.

“How about this? Tell me what the doctors told you.”

“Thassit?” she drawled. “That’s like you got one of those genie lamps with the three wishes and you wished for a sausage on the end of your nose.”

I couldn’t help cracking up at the image from that ancient parable or fable or whatever it was. But I refused to be sidetracked. And so I persisted.

“What did Dr. Terk say?”

“Oh, you know. Looks like they got it all, but they’re not committing, not yet.”

“When are they letting you out of here?”

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday?”

“What year?”

“When, Claire? When can you go home?”

“When the docs are sure my lung isn’t leaking.”

“Do you hurt?”

“Not now. Man, I never realized how boring you are, grrfren’.”

I laughed out loud. I knew it was the drugs talking, but still, I was so glad to be in her face, annoying her to death.

“And work? Did they say when can you come back to work?”