space, then move on to the entire kitchen. One man was six four and thin, the other a head shorter and even skinnier. Both wore stubble goatees and eyeglasses.
“Humongous place,” said Tall. “Give me a poor victim in a one-room shithole any day.”
“No victim I see,” said Short. “We’re checking out food, dude.”
Tall looked past him. “Vast, we could be here all day.”
Milo said, “If you get hungry, I’ll call out for dinner.”
Short said, “Ironic. Ha. I vote for Mexican.”
Tall said, “I vote for finishing before dinner.”
Milo and I returned outside. He leaned against the empty corral, rubbed his face, stared at the pretty sky.
“You know and I know,” he said. “Ain’t we the lucky ones?”
A beat.
I said, “Hennepin redux?”
He cursed. “How the hell can it be, Alex? Someone’s out to plague me?”
Suddenly he loped toward his car, slapped the trunk hard enough to redden his palm, returned looking ready to commit an atrocity.
“First salmon, now goddamn boneless chicken breast?”
I said, “The kind of meals a man might see as girlie.”
“Meaning?”
“Low fat, plenty of fiber, moderate portions.” I wasn’t sure if I was kidding. Milo didn’t see any humor in it.
“C’mon, Alex, what the
hell
? Someone with a thing for
me
? Poor Ursula was nothing but a
pawn
? I mean how would they know?”
I thought of his favorite bumper sticker:
Even paranoids have enemies
. “Maybe Hennepin and Corey are somehow connected.”
“An accountant and a tycooness?”
“Tycoonesses need accountants. Who was Ursula’s?”
His smile was instantaneous, feral, frightening. “You probably think that question will stymie me but
as
a matter of fact, I’ve got the answer at my fingertips because I combed through her and Richard’s finances for a solid goddamn week and it’s not the Hennepin’s bosses—the Grosses. No sir, Urrick’s taxes are handled by a hoohah firm in the same building as Fellinger.”
“Really,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m grasping but maybe the building’s the link,” I said. “What if Hennepin had reason to be there—running an errand for the Grosses—and she got sniffed out by the same predator who went after Ursula?”
“So everything I’ve worked on Ursula—the money motive, Richard, some unhappy boyfriend—was a total waste of time and there’s some random psychopath stationed on Avenue of the Stars looking for random prey?”
It’s never random. I said nothing.
“Great, that’s fantastic, beautiful. Phantom of the office building?Even if I thought it made sense, why would he strangle and overkill-butcher one victim, wait four-plus months, and do another one execution-style?”
I said, “Well—”
“You’re gonna tell me it’s the signature, not the M.O., right?”
I smiled.
He said, “So what’s this guy signing his name to? The joys of cuisine?”
“Marissa may have stumbled upon it a few minutes ago. Pride of ownership.”
“He cooks a meal so he owns his victims? Why that, specifically? His mommy starved him in the crib? Insufficient breast-feeding?”
He strode away a second time, walked out to the middle of the road, and stood there, arms folded across his barrel chest. As if challenging a car to appear.
None did. Not a sound other than bird peeps. Beautiful place. Ursula Corey had left it, expecting a lovely day sweetened by altruism toward her children, only to die on oily asphalt.
When Milo returned, I said, “It wouldn’t need to be someone who’s at the building regularly. People come in and out. Occasional would be enough. That could explain four months between victims.”
“Reed studied those tapes. No one iffy entered or exited the morning Ursula was killed.”
“Define iffy.”
“In the case of a motorist, a tag that traces to a criminal record. In the case of a pedestrian, lurking, loitering, acting generally creepy or spooky, any sort of purposeless behavior.”
I said nothing.
He
“Humongous place,” said Tall. “Give me a poor victim in a one-room shithole any day.”
“No victim I see,” said Short. “We’re checking out food, dude.”
Tall looked past him. “Vast, we could be here all day.”
Milo said, “If you get hungry, I’ll call out for dinner.”
Short said, “Ironic. Ha. I vote for Mexican.”
Tall said, “I vote for finishing before dinner.”
Milo and I returned outside. He leaned against the empty corral, rubbed his face, stared at the pretty sky.
“You know and I know,” he said. “Ain’t we the lucky ones?”
A beat.
I said, “Hennepin redux?”
He cursed. “How the hell can it be, Alex? Someone’s out to plague me?”
Suddenly he loped toward his car, slapped the trunk hard enough to redden his palm, returned looking ready to commit an atrocity.
“First salmon, now goddamn boneless chicken breast?”
I said, “The kind of meals a man might see as girlie.”
“Meaning?”
“Low fat, plenty of fiber, moderate portions.” I wasn’t sure if I was kidding. Milo didn’t see any humor in it.
“C’mon, Alex, what the
hell
? Someone with a thing for
me
? Poor Ursula was nothing but a
pawn
? I mean how would they know?”
I thought of his favorite bumper sticker:
Even paranoids have enemies
. “Maybe Hennepin and Corey are somehow connected.”
“An accountant and a tycooness?”
“Tycoonesses need accountants. Who was Ursula’s?”
His smile was instantaneous, feral, frightening. “You probably think that question will stymie me but
as
a matter of fact, I’ve got the answer at my fingertips because I combed through her and Richard’s finances for a solid goddamn week and it’s not the Hennepin’s bosses—the Grosses. No sir, Urrick’s taxes are handled by a hoohah firm in the same building as Fellinger.”
“Really,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m grasping but maybe the building’s the link,” I said. “What if Hennepin had reason to be there—running an errand for the Grosses—and she got sniffed out by the same predator who went after Ursula?”
“So everything I’ve worked on Ursula—the money motive, Richard, some unhappy boyfriend—was a total waste of time and there’s some random psychopath stationed on Avenue of the Stars looking for random prey?”
It’s never random. I said nothing.
“Great, that’s fantastic, beautiful. Phantom of the office building?Even if I thought it made sense, why would he strangle and overkill-butcher one victim, wait four-plus months, and do another one execution-style?”
I said, “Well—”
“You’re gonna tell me it’s the signature, not the M.O., right?”
I smiled.
He said, “So what’s this guy signing his name to? The joys of cuisine?”
“Marissa may have stumbled upon it a few minutes ago. Pride of ownership.”
“He cooks a meal so he owns his victims? Why that, specifically? His mommy starved him in the crib? Insufficient breast-feeding?”
He strode away a second time, walked out to the middle of the road, and stood there, arms folded across his barrel chest. As if challenging a car to appear.
None did. Not a sound other than bird peeps. Beautiful place. Ursula Corey had left it, expecting a lovely day sweetened by altruism toward her children, only to die on oily asphalt.
When Milo returned, I said, “It wouldn’t need to be someone who’s at the building regularly. People come in and out. Occasional would be enough. That could explain four months between victims.”
“Reed studied those tapes. No one iffy entered or exited the morning Ursula was killed.”
“Define iffy.”
“In the case of a motorist, a tag that traces to a criminal record. In the case of a pedestrian, lurking, loitering, acting generally creepy or spooky, any sort of purposeless behavior.”
I said nothing.
He
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