at a fast run.
Excited, Willy dashed up the stairs and went through the side door to the kitchen. There was nobody inside, so he darted over to the rear exit and pushed it open. The path outside was slick with grease and mud, but Willy paid it little attention as he squelched his way to the garbage container.
The metal lid was lighter than it looked and it locked open in a giant yawning mouth. Inside, Willy saw nothing more exciting than empty food cans, industrial-sized, plastic french fry bags and smelly, ketchup-splotched hamburger boxes. Swallowing his disgust, Willy began to dig down through the garbage to see what had unnerved the two ragmen.
He struck gold almost instantly. Hidden below the first layer of boxes was a ghost-white face surrounded by long greasy hair; its empty eyes stared up in bewilderment. Willy pulled away another layer of garbage to uncover the young man’s bloodstained chest. Sticking out of his ribs, directly below his heart, was a large kitchen knife.
“Who the hell are you?” Willy muttered to the corpse.
WILLY CLOSED THE lid and walked into the hotel. Inside, he picked up the kitchen phone and dialed long-distance to Seattle.
“Newsroom. Brady here,” answered a gruff, tobacco-roughened voice.
Donald Brady was a 54-year-old assistant city editor and, like Willy, one of the last members of the old guard. Unlike Willy, however, he had kept his job by wearing a tie and kissing corporate ass rather than disappearing into the cracks. In the old days he had been one hell of a newspaper man. Nowadays, he simply prayed he wouldn’t be laid off before his pension kicked in.
“Hey, Brady, it’s Willy calling.”
“Yeah, what do you want? Hope you’re not calling in sick again.” Ever since he put on the tie and rolled down his sleeves, Brady had turned into an asshole.
“No, listen. Did you read my murder piece this morning?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, I’m in Port Sorrow right now.”
“You’re what? Who assigned you?”
“Nobody, would you listen? There’s been another murder. It’s probably tied into the stripper’s and I’ve got the exclusive.”
“How did you get that?” Brady asked, his voice finally revealing some interest.
“I discovered the body.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. I also have an interview with the stripper’s roommate and he’s supplied me with a great photo of her. Get this. The girl comes from a wealthy family in Washington, DC, and she was a virgin when she died.”
“Little princess gone bad?”
“You got it. Interested?”
“When can I have the story?”
“In a couple hours. I still have to tell the cops about the second body, then I have to find out who the fuck he is and how he ties into it all. But I’ll courier the photo to you pronto. Oh, and Brady?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you spell my fucking name right, okay?”
Brady laughed. The son-of-a-bitch actually laughed. “It’s good to have you back, Willy.”
Willy hung up, grinning to himself, and then dialed the sheriff’s office.
Yeah, it was good to be back.
CHAPTER 21
The dull gray husk cracked between white teeth, giving up its tender meat before collapsing into a mushy blob that flew with ease to the lip of the abyss and over.
Finn listened to it fall, imagining he could hear it splat on the sidewalk, knowing he was losing his mind. Resting weary feet on top of the makeup table, he stuffed another sunflower seed in his mouth and ran fingers through damp hair. The worst part about becoming Veronique was washing her off afterwards.
The street below was still deserted. It was too early for the evening johns, and barely past wake-up call for the drunks. Nothing stirred in the cool early-evening breeze but litter and dust.
It had been one hell of a day. Julia had finished cross-examining him three hours earlier about the cook’s body; Paul had been shipped to the morgue; and the reporter, Willy something, had yapped away
Excited, Willy dashed up the stairs and went through the side door to the kitchen. There was nobody inside, so he darted over to the rear exit and pushed it open. The path outside was slick with grease and mud, but Willy paid it little attention as he squelched his way to the garbage container.
The metal lid was lighter than it looked and it locked open in a giant yawning mouth. Inside, Willy saw nothing more exciting than empty food cans, industrial-sized, plastic french fry bags and smelly, ketchup-splotched hamburger boxes. Swallowing his disgust, Willy began to dig down through the garbage to see what had unnerved the two ragmen.
He struck gold almost instantly. Hidden below the first layer of boxes was a ghost-white face surrounded by long greasy hair; its empty eyes stared up in bewilderment. Willy pulled away another layer of garbage to uncover the young man’s bloodstained chest. Sticking out of his ribs, directly below his heart, was a large kitchen knife.
“Who the hell are you?” Willy muttered to the corpse.
WILLY CLOSED THE lid and walked into the hotel. Inside, he picked up the kitchen phone and dialed long-distance to Seattle.
“Newsroom. Brady here,” answered a gruff, tobacco-roughened voice.
Donald Brady was a 54-year-old assistant city editor and, like Willy, one of the last members of the old guard. Unlike Willy, however, he had kept his job by wearing a tie and kissing corporate ass rather than disappearing into the cracks. In the old days he had been one hell of a newspaper man. Nowadays, he simply prayed he wouldn’t be laid off before his pension kicked in.
“Hey, Brady, it’s Willy calling.”
“Yeah, what do you want? Hope you’re not calling in sick again.” Ever since he put on the tie and rolled down his sleeves, Brady had turned into an asshole.
“No, listen. Did you read my murder piece this morning?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, I’m in Port Sorrow right now.”
“You’re what? Who assigned you?”
“Nobody, would you listen? There’s been another murder. It’s probably tied into the stripper’s and I’ve got the exclusive.”
“How did you get that?” Brady asked, his voice finally revealing some interest.
“I discovered the body.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. I also have an interview with the stripper’s roommate and he’s supplied me with a great photo of her. Get this. The girl comes from a wealthy family in Washington, DC, and she was a virgin when she died.”
“Little princess gone bad?”
“You got it. Interested?”
“When can I have the story?”
“In a couple hours. I still have to tell the cops about the second body, then I have to find out who the fuck he is and how he ties into it all. But I’ll courier the photo to you pronto. Oh, and Brady?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you spell my fucking name right, okay?”
Brady laughed. The son-of-a-bitch actually laughed. “It’s good to have you back, Willy.”
Willy hung up, grinning to himself, and then dialed the sheriff’s office.
Yeah, it was good to be back.
CHAPTER 21
The dull gray husk cracked between white teeth, giving up its tender meat before collapsing into a mushy blob that flew with ease to the lip of the abyss and over.
Finn listened to it fall, imagining he could hear it splat on the sidewalk, knowing he was losing his mind. Resting weary feet on top of the makeup table, he stuffed another sunflower seed in his mouth and ran fingers through damp hair. The worst part about becoming Veronique was washing her off afterwards.
The street below was still deserted. It was too early for the evening johns, and barely past wake-up call for the drunks. Nothing stirred in the cool early-evening breeze but litter and dust.
It had been one hell of a day. Julia had finished cross-examining him three hours earlier about the cook’s body; Paul had been shipped to the morgue; and the reporter, Willy something, had yapped away
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