killer?”
Roy planted both hands on her desk and bent over them, his face uncomfortably close to hers. Coffee. Soap. “There’s no proof he’s a serial killer. If he were, we’d have to bring in the feebies, and I’m not going there without more than one body.”
Feebies were the FBI, whose jurisdiction included serial killers. Cops and the FBI weren’t exactly a model for interagency cooperation.
“He may have been at the psychic fair to scout victims,” Faith insisted. “He says he’ll kill again.”
“Which makes him a potential —” Instead of finishing, he rolled his eyes in defeat, straightened and nodded at Greg.
“Tell her, will you? The chance of this one whack-job going after her is a lot lower than the chance of an entire gang trying to recover their lost dignity.”
Greg, looking from one of them to the other, said, “Faith told me about the attack last night. You don’t think it’s connected to her dead roommate?”
“No, but I’m not above using it as an excuse to talk her into dating me.” Waving her away, Roy headed for Greg’s office. “All likely agony aside.”
“She doesn’t date co-workers,” Greg said.
“Are we co-workers?”
But then Greg shut the door. Not that it kept Faith from hearing, if she made the least effort. But since the only reason Roy was talking about her was to annoy her, he immediately changed subjects to something more important.
The killer’s note.
Faith went back to her data entry, but she worked slowly, quieting the sound of her fingers on the keys to better follow snatches of what was going on in Greg’s office. Apparently the handwriting analysis had shown that the writer might be mentally disturbed, but he hid it well. Roy said that was good news, but he was being sarcastic. He admitted that they’d questioned Krystal’s boyfriend from the previous year but had to let him go; he wasn’t the killer. They had no idea who the killer was.
“We got nothing,” Faith heard him admit. “Butch has resorted to listening to some psychic contact he’s got.”
“What, Cassandra?” Greg laughed. “I talk to Butch, too.”
“An anonymous contact is bad enough, but an anonymous psychic contact?” Roy swore crudely. “I say if they aren’t willing to meet you face-to-face, they aren’t worth it.”
“When you’ve exhausted all the possibilities…” Greg reminded him, a shrug in his voice.
“And in the meantime we’ve got a bunch of so-called readers who are either scared out of their wits or not scared enough, and a few hangers-on like that assistant of yours who swings either direction. Hey. Tell me something.”
As Roy lowered his voice, Faith’s fingers slowed to a stop on her computer keyboard.
Then he asked, “You ever talk to her mom? What’s up with that one?”
Greg said something about only speaking to Mrs. Corbett once, when Faith was out, but Faith couldn’t hear clearly anymore, not through the buzz of understanding that filled her head. Roy thought her mother was crazy? When had he talked to her mom?
But the answer to that was suddenly obvious. It must have been last night, when Faith cancelled the date. That must be why Tamara, in a panic, had called Faith.
Faith stood, torn in two directions. On the one hand, she couldn’t call Roy out on this without letting him and Greg know she’d overheard. So much for banter, bulging biceps and the possibility of him carrying her imaginary books.
On the other hand…
Damn. The only other alternative was to pretend she didn’t know about it, and that was no alternative at all.
She stalked to Greg’s office and hurled the door open, not bothering to knock, startling the hell out of the two men inside.
“You called my mother? ”
Chapter 7
B y the time Faith stepped off the St. Charles streetcar a few blocks from her mother’s Garden District residence that afternoon, she felt physically ill.
Not just because of the shouting match she’d had with Roy
Roy planted both hands on her desk and bent over them, his face uncomfortably close to hers. Coffee. Soap. “There’s no proof he’s a serial killer. If he were, we’d have to bring in the feebies, and I’m not going there without more than one body.”
Feebies were the FBI, whose jurisdiction included serial killers. Cops and the FBI weren’t exactly a model for interagency cooperation.
“He may have been at the psychic fair to scout victims,” Faith insisted. “He says he’ll kill again.”
“Which makes him a potential —” Instead of finishing, he rolled his eyes in defeat, straightened and nodded at Greg.
“Tell her, will you? The chance of this one whack-job going after her is a lot lower than the chance of an entire gang trying to recover their lost dignity.”
Greg, looking from one of them to the other, said, “Faith told me about the attack last night. You don’t think it’s connected to her dead roommate?”
“No, but I’m not above using it as an excuse to talk her into dating me.” Waving her away, Roy headed for Greg’s office. “All likely agony aside.”
“She doesn’t date co-workers,” Greg said.
“Are we co-workers?”
But then Greg shut the door. Not that it kept Faith from hearing, if she made the least effort. But since the only reason Roy was talking about her was to annoy her, he immediately changed subjects to something more important.
The killer’s note.
Faith went back to her data entry, but she worked slowly, quieting the sound of her fingers on the keys to better follow snatches of what was going on in Greg’s office. Apparently the handwriting analysis had shown that the writer might be mentally disturbed, but he hid it well. Roy said that was good news, but he was being sarcastic. He admitted that they’d questioned Krystal’s boyfriend from the previous year but had to let him go; he wasn’t the killer. They had no idea who the killer was.
“We got nothing,” Faith heard him admit. “Butch has resorted to listening to some psychic contact he’s got.”
“What, Cassandra?” Greg laughed. “I talk to Butch, too.”
“An anonymous contact is bad enough, but an anonymous psychic contact?” Roy swore crudely. “I say if they aren’t willing to meet you face-to-face, they aren’t worth it.”
“When you’ve exhausted all the possibilities…” Greg reminded him, a shrug in his voice.
“And in the meantime we’ve got a bunch of so-called readers who are either scared out of their wits or not scared enough, and a few hangers-on like that assistant of yours who swings either direction. Hey. Tell me something.”
As Roy lowered his voice, Faith’s fingers slowed to a stop on her computer keyboard.
Then he asked, “You ever talk to her mom? What’s up with that one?”
Greg said something about only speaking to Mrs. Corbett once, when Faith was out, but Faith couldn’t hear clearly anymore, not through the buzz of understanding that filled her head. Roy thought her mother was crazy? When had he talked to her mom?
But the answer to that was suddenly obvious. It must have been last night, when Faith cancelled the date. That must be why Tamara, in a panic, had called Faith.
Faith stood, torn in two directions. On the one hand, she couldn’t call Roy out on this without letting him and Greg know she’d overheard. So much for banter, bulging biceps and the possibility of him carrying her imaginary books.
On the other hand…
Damn. The only other alternative was to pretend she didn’t know about it, and that was no alternative at all.
She stalked to Greg’s office and hurled the door open, not bothering to knock, startling the hell out of the two men inside.
“You called my mother? ”
Chapter 7
B y the time Faith stepped off the St. Charles streetcar a few blocks from her mother’s Garden District residence that afternoon, she felt physically ill.
Not just because of the shouting match she’d had with Roy
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