clipped.
“Twelve thousand and two hits on his site. That’s a long list.”
“Who put this damned site together?” Gunderson asked.
“Some wannabe serial-killer junkie named Scott Arsenault.”
“So is this a departmental leak or is this mope some friend of Eales’s?”
Kay shook her head, her jaw twitching, her lips tight.
“Well, you’re gonna find this little asswipe,” Gunderson said, “and you’re going to find out how the hell he knows about those cuts to the victims’ chest.”
19
SCOTT ARSENAULT lived on President Street in an upscale high-rise a world away from Eales’s dump across the harbor. Taking the marble-floored elevator to the twentieth floor, Kay could feel the anger steaming off Finn. It was even more palpable when he brought his fist to the double doors of the Web designer’s condo. And as they waited, Kay knew there was more behind Finn’s mood than Arsenault’s site. Her inclusion in the site’s content had really put Finn over the edge. He hammered on the door again.
Arsenault was smiling when he answered. He was handsome: lean but well muscled under the crisp oxford shirt with button-down collar, tucked into a pair of pressed linen pants. Except for the trimmed goatee, he had an adolescent’s face, with the kind of features and good skin that would likely have him mistaken for twentysomething even into his forties. Kay thought he had a pleasant face.
“You Scott Arsenault?” Finn asked, showing his shield, waiting for the nod. “We need to talk to you.”
“Can’t this wait, Detective? I’m with a client.”
“A client?”
As if on cue, a large, heavy-jowled man stepped into view at the head of the foyer, his tailored suit looking as though it had been fitted forty pounds ago. “Is there a problem, Scott?” the man asked.
Finn moved into the doorway. “You a serial killer too?”
“Excuse me?” Arsenault’s face darkened. The smile gone. When he moved to block Finn’s entrance, Finn countered and managed to gain another two feet into the overly air-conditioned suite. “I’m in the middle of a meeting here. Do I need to call security?”
“Not necessary, Scotty. Security already knows we’re here.” And then addressing the suit: “You can go now, sir. Meeting’s over.”
But not until Arsenault gave the man a stiff nod and apologized did he gather his briefcase and brush past them.
“I don’t know what this is about, Detectives,” Arsenault said as Finn invited himself into the front hall, “but I trust your superior officers are aware of and approve of your intrusion today?”
“You can call our sergeant, Scotty. I’m sure he’ll handle any complaints you have with the utmost expediency, especially given his recent interest in your website,” Finn said as Kay followed him past the foyer.
The main room of the open-concept condo was immaculate. Sun flooded through floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off polished wood and chrome, glass and mirrors. Bookshelves lined the east wall, banking in a tight arrangement of black leather furnishings. Past the immaculate kitchen bar, Kay saw the stainless-steel appliances and gleaming white tiles. It took a moment for her to decide what was absent from Scott Arsenault’s suite. The place had absolutely no sense that someone lived there.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names.” Arsenault stood with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I didn’t give ’em,” Finn said, moving past the Web designer. “Finnerty and Delaney.”
Arsenault looked squarely at her this time, his features softening with an ingratiating smile. “Delaney? From Homicide?” When he extended his hand, she took it— warm and dry—into hers. “I didn’t recognize you.” She thought of the Sun photo on his website as his hand held hers just a little too long.
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Detective Delaney.”
She sensed Finn watching as Arsenault ran his gaze over her.
“Twelve thousand and two hits on his site. That’s a long list.”
“Who put this damned site together?” Gunderson asked.
“Some wannabe serial-killer junkie named Scott Arsenault.”
“So is this a departmental leak or is this mope some friend of Eales’s?”
Kay shook her head, her jaw twitching, her lips tight.
“Well, you’re gonna find this little asswipe,” Gunderson said, “and you’re going to find out how the hell he knows about those cuts to the victims’ chest.”
19
SCOTT ARSENAULT lived on President Street in an upscale high-rise a world away from Eales’s dump across the harbor. Taking the marble-floored elevator to the twentieth floor, Kay could feel the anger steaming off Finn. It was even more palpable when he brought his fist to the double doors of the Web designer’s condo. And as they waited, Kay knew there was more behind Finn’s mood than Arsenault’s site. Her inclusion in the site’s content had really put Finn over the edge. He hammered on the door again.
Arsenault was smiling when he answered. He was handsome: lean but well muscled under the crisp oxford shirt with button-down collar, tucked into a pair of pressed linen pants. Except for the trimmed goatee, he had an adolescent’s face, with the kind of features and good skin that would likely have him mistaken for twentysomething even into his forties. Kay thought he had a pleasant face.
“You Scott Arsenault?” Finn asked, showing his shield, waiting for the nod. “We need to talk to you.”
“Can’t this wait, Detective? I’m with a client.”
“A client?”
As if on cue, a large, heavy-jowled man stepped into view at the head of the foyer, his tailored suit looking as though it had been fitted forty pounds ago. “Is there a problem, Scott?” the man asked.
Finn moved into the doorway. “You a serial killer too?”
“Excuse me?” Arsenault’s face darkened. The smile gone. When he moved to block Finn’s entrance, Finn countered and managed to gain another two feet into the overly air-conditioned suite. “I’m in the middle of a meeting here. Do I need to call security?”
“Not necessary, Scotty. Security already knows we’re here.” And then addressing the suit: “You can go now, sir. Meeting’s over.”
But not until Arsenault gave the man a stiff nod and apologized did he gather his briefcase and brush past them.
“I don’t know what this is about, Detectives,” Arsenault said as Finn invited himself into the front hall, “but I trust your superior officers are aware of and approve of your intrusion today?”
“You can call our sergeant, Scotty. I’m sure he’ll handle any complaints you have with the utmost expediency, especially given his recent interest in your website,” Finn said as Kay followed him past the foyer.
The main room of the open-concept condo was immaculate. Sun flooded through floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off polished wood and chrome, glass and mirrors. Bookshelves lined the east wall, banking in a tight arrangement of black leather furnishings. Past the immaculate kitchen bar, Kay saw the stainless-steel appliances and gleaming white tiles. It took a moment for her to decide what was absent from Scott Arsenault’s suite. The place had absolutely no sense that someone lived there.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names.” Arsenault stood with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I didn’t give ’em,” Finn said, moving past the Web designer. “Finnerty and Delaney.”
Arsenault looked squarely at her this time, his features softening with an ingratiating smile. “Delaney? From Homicide?” When he extended his hand, she took it— warm and dry—into hers. “I didn’t recognize you.” She thought of the Sun photo on his website as his hand held hers just a little too long.
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Detective Delaney.”
She sensed Finn watching as Arsenault ran his gaze over her.
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