Chapter 17 #2
“I know. He’s just really ticked off.” He smothered a smile.
“Which I happen to love. Later!” With a wave, he was off, wending through the cubicles and out the front door.
Nikki glanced over at Fink’s glassed-in office where, through the half-opened blinds, he was fuming at his desk.
As if he felt her gaze on him, he glanced away from one of his computer monitors and caught her eye.
And then he kicked back his chair and was through the door, marching toward her desk.
Was Roy right? Would Fink send her packing?
She felt herself bristle. Let’s just see.
“You have a new article?” he asked. “Something on the serial-killer cases?”
He knew she didn’t. She’d called him from the road before landing here and had explained that she was “working on” a story. That wasn’t really a lie. Not really. “I don’t think the Huber and Greenlee cases have been labeled as serial killer.”
“Oh, come on. They’re too damned similar not to be linked. Don’t the police have some connection between the victims? Haven’t they come up with a profile on the psycho who committed the crimes? Isn’t there some piece of evidence that was at both crime scenes or a calling card or something?”
She furrowed her brow and spoke the half lie convincingly, she hoped. “Not that I know of.”
“Yeah, right,” he spat, disbelieving. Then his eyes narrowed. “You know, Gillette, you used to be a good reporter.”
“Used to …”
“Right. You’d do anything for a story. But you’ve gotten soft. I can see it. You’re not the all-balls-out reporter you used to be. Ever since you had that kid, you haven’t had the same dedication, that edge that made you stand out.”
“Gee, I didn’t think you noticed.” She was holding on to her temper with an effort.
“Well, it’s gone now. And before you argue with me, remember my back is up against the wall, just trying to keep this paper going.
I don’t need excuses. I don’t need platitudes, and I certainly don’t need fluff pieces.
What I need from you is the same hard-edged reporting that you did when you made a name for yourself.
You know what I’m talking about, so come up with something good.
No. Strike that. Come up with something deep, perceptive, and honed to a razor’s edge.
Something great, in fact. You covered some of the most bloody and bizarre homicides in this part of Georgia.
And now? Another one is dropped at your feet, and you’re married to the lead investigator, and so far you haven’t come up with jack shit!
“And if I don’t come up with something you think is ‘deep, perceptive, and honed to a razor’s edge’?”
“Then I guess we’ll be calling you a has-been.”
“Wow.”
“Exactly.” With his jaw rock-hard and his lips thin as that razor he’d been talking about, he stalked back to his office.
She should quit completely. Tell Fink to take a hike or worse. She was seething, but she tamped down her fury. For now she needed to … let it go. There was something to be said for revenge being served up cold … well, if she could, she’d ram an iceberg of rage right down his throat. But … but …
But better to write the best damn story she could come up with and offer it to a rival paper. Maybe one in Atlanta. Or Charlotte, or anywhere!
She had some ideas, but they hadn’t gelled, and she didn’t have enough information to create the piece she was planning.
Yet. And she couldn’t go behind Pierce’s back.
Nor could she give up on a story. She thought of the rocks that had been left at the scene, polished stones with numbers inscribed on them, but she’d only learned of the first one because she’d been at Billy Huber’s place when they’d discovered the stone under his body.
From Pierce, she’d heard about the second one, found on Mavis Greenlee, but she’d been sworn to secrecy until such time as Pierce told her she could write about it.
For now, the police were keeping that piece of evidence hidden from the public, something only they and the killer knew about, to weed out the people who called in and claimed to be the perpetrator.
She really, really wanted to tell Fink to shove it, to take his bad mood and get out of her face, but she held her tongue and gathered her things.
She’d spent two hours going through old newspaper stories, learning about Mavis Greenlee, who had cultivated her public persona to reflect a Savannah socialite with Christian values who dedicated her life to helping others, while neglecting her own mother and making enemies.
But unlike Billy Huber, Mavis Greenlee had no criminal record, nor any civil lawsuits leveled against her.
What was most disturbing was what she’d found out about her own father and how her family was linked to Mavis.
Big Ron was long dead, the affair decades past, and her mother was capable of a lot of things, but … what? Hiring a psycho to murder an old rival? And what about Billy Huber? Why kill him? To throw off the police?
In that vein, her thoughts turned to Kyle, her ghost of a brother, who had suddenly reappeared in their mother’s life and who’d admitted to working for Mavis’s husband.
What was that all about? she wondered. Gathering her things from the desk and seeing Fink, now wearing his driving cap as he stormed out of the office, she nearly running into Roy on the way out.
“What did I tell you?” Roy asked as he reached Nikki’s desk, then glanced over his shoulder to the far door swinging closed behind Tom Fink. “Guess he’s not getting any.”
“What?”
“Well, Celeste dumped him, just last week.”
“Again?”
“Um-hm. And I heard that his wife had finally had enough. Kicked him out.”
“And possibly scratched his car?”
Roy gave an exaggerated shrug. “Who knows?”
“Oh, God, you didn’t do it, did you?” She was already starting for the exit.
“Moi?” he said, motioning to his chest in mock horror. “You know me better than that. I would never mar anything vintage. Not even a muscle car.” He gave a little shake of his head. “Not my style.”
“If you say so,” she called over her shoulder, but she wondered what actually lay beneath Roy’s overtly perfect facade.
“Oh, for the love of God,” she muttered, angry with herself as she took the stairs to the first floor and walked into the afternoon sunlight.
Now she was second-guessing Roy. And her brother Kyle.
And just about anyone else she came into contact with.
Running in circles on this damned case was getting to her, that was it.
And then she saw Tom Fink’s Corvette as he wheeled out of the lot, the ugly message Man-whore scratched into the otherwise pristine paint.