Fair Warning (Jack McEvoy #3)(64)

That brought a long pause to the discussion.

“Why would he print the names if he’s already a customer and can access the same names through the site?” Myron asked.

“I think he’s probably anticipating that the site is going to get closed down,” Rachel said. “He may know about Jack and Emily or he might think law enforcement is closing in.”

“That puts a clock on things,” Emily said. “We can’t sit on this and put those women at risk. We have to publish.”

“We don’t even have the whole story yet,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Rachel said. “You people write your story while I take it to the bureau.”

“No,” I said. “I told you that had to—”

“And I agreed,” Rachel said. “But that was before I saw what was in the printouts. I have to go to the bureau and the bureau has to go to the police. This killer has all the names. They have to be protected. We can’t wait.”

“She’s right,” Myron said.

“It works, Jack,” Emily said. “We can say the FBI is investigating, give the story immediate credibility. The FBI gets us past go.”

I realized all three of them were right and that I had just come off rather badly, putting the story ahead of the safety of dozens of women. I saw the disappointment in both Rachel’s and Emily’s eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “But two things. We make it clear to the bureau, the cops, any agency involved that they can do what they need to do but no press conferences or announcements until after we publish.”

“How long will that be?” Rachel asked.

I looked at Myron and said the first number that popped into my head.

“Forty-eight hours,” I said.

Rachel thought about it and nodded.

“I can try to make that work,” she said. “Realistically, it will probably take them that long to confirm what we give them.”

“Myron, you good with that?” I asked. “Emily?”

They both nodded their approval and I looked at Rachel.

“We’re good,” I said.





THE SHRIKE





29

He waited on the food-court level at a table against the railing. It gave him a view directly down onto the second-level stores on the north side of the mall. There was a circular banquette designed as a spot for husbands to sit while waiting for their wives to shop. He did not know what Vogel looked like. Hammond’s partner had managed to keep his images and locations off the web. Kudos for that. But the hacker was of a type. The man who called himself the Shrike hoped to be able to identify him among the weekday shoppers in the mall.

The Shrike had picked the spot, putting out the mall location with the excuse that he—as Hammond—already planned to be there. It wasn’t the best location for what he intended but he didn’t want to raise any suspicions in Vogel. The priority was to get him to come.

He had a full tray of takeout food in front of him as camouflage. On the chair across the table from him was a shopping bag containing two gift-wrapped boxes that were empty. He was making a high-risk move and blending in was key.

He didn’t touch any of the food because after he ordered it he thought it all smelled disgusting. He also thought it might draw attention to him if someone noticed he was wearing gloves. So he kept his hands down in his lap.

He checked below and saw that a woman was now seated on the banquette. She was watching one of the children in the nearby Kiddie Korner playground. No sign of anyone who might be Vogel.

“Can I clear anything here?”

He turned to see a table cleaner standing at his side.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m still working on it.”

He waited until the cleaner walked away before checking down below. Now the woman was gone and a man had taken her place. He looked like he was in his early thirties. He had on jeans and a lightweight sweater. He seemed to be checking his surroundings in a casual but purposeful way. He wore sunglasses inside and that was the final giveaway. It was Vogel. He was a bit early but that was okay. It meant he might grow tired of waiting sooner and would leave when he believed the rendezvous was not happening.

That was when the Shrike would follow him out.





JACK





30

On any story reported by a team there always comes the awkward decision of who writes it and who feeds the facts to the writer. Writing together never works. You can’t sit side by side at the computer. The one who writes generally controls the tone of the story and the way the information is delivered, and usually gets the lead byline too. This was my story and it was my call, but I was smart enough to know that Emily Atwater was the better writer and I was the better digger. She had a way with words that I did not. I would be the first to admit that the two books I had published were heavily edited to the point of being reorganized and rewritten. All kudos to my editors but the royalty checks still went to me.

Emily was a lean writer, a follower of the less-is-more school. Short sentences gave her stories momentum and I was not blind to this. I also knew that putting her name first in the byline would not reflect badly on me. It would look like we had equal billing because it would be in alphabetical order: Atwater and McEvoy. I told her she could write the story. She was at first floored and then thankful. I could tell she believed it was the right call. She was just surprised I had made it. I thought the moment helped me make up for some of my missteps with her lately.