Sense of Evil by Kay Hooper

Isabel said. “Don’t want to get involved, or honestly don’t believe they have any knowledge of value.”
    “And secrets of their own to protect,” Rafe noted.
    “Definitely. It’s amazing how many people get nervous about some little transgression they’re afraid we’ll be interested in.”
    “Transgressions can be entertaining,” Mallory noted.
    Isabel grinned, and said, “True enough. But in this case, we hardly have time for them. Pity we can’t make that announcement publicly. It’d probably save us time.”
    “And trouble,” Rafe agreed.
    “Yeah. Anyway, if Jamie had a lockbox under another name, she may well have worn a disguise of some kind when she visited. Just a wig, most likely, something that wouldn’t have looked too phony. You probably won’t have much luck showing her photo, but it’s something that needs to be done. And we might get lucky.”
    Rafe nodded. “We do need to do whatever we can to make sure we’ve covered all the bases. But I’m not holding out much hope either. Especially after finding out she was pretty good at keeping secrets.”
    “Maybe a lot more secrets than we’ve yet discovered,” Isabel said. “I know she made very good money, but she’s also invested quite a bit in properties in the area, and she lived very well. I’m thinking that maybe the S&M stuff wasn’t all fun and games for Jamie.”
    “Shit,” Rafe said. “Mistress for hire?”
    “Lots of people, apparently, willing to pay to be humiliated. Jamie was a smart businesswoman, so why wouldn’t she charge for
all
her talents?”
     
    Cheryl Bayne had been working hard on her career, doing all the frequently boring and certainly fluffy junk demanded of baby reporters—and female reporters. Especially when they worked for fourth-place TV stations. Dumb filler pieces on what the society ladies were wearing this season, or the mayor’s daughter’s birthday party, or the baby lion cub born at the zoo.
    She was really sick of fluff.
    So when her producer had offered her the chance to come to Hastings and cover this story—because a woman would play better, he’d said, and she was brunette, after all—Cheryl had jumped at it.
    Now she was mostly just jumping at shadows.
    Presently, on this Friday afternoon, she felt relatively safe standing in front of the town hall under the shade of a big oak tree. Her cameraperson was off getting background shots of the town, but she wasn’t really alone, since the area was crawling with media.
    “This is getting old.” Dana Earley, a more experienced reporter for a rival Columbia station, sidled closer, studying the police department across Main Street with a slightly jaundiced eye. “Whatever they know over there, they aren’t anxious to share.”
    “At least the chief called that press conference yesterday,” Cheryl offered.
    “Yeah, and told us squat.” Dana reached up to tuck a strand of blond hair behind one ear. She looked at Cheryl, hesitated, then asked, “Have you had the feeling you were being followed, watched, especially at night? Or it is just us blondes?”
    A little relieved to be able to talk about it, Cheryl said, “Actually, yeah. I thought it was my imagination.”
    “Umm. I’ve been asking around, and so far every woman I’ve talked to has had the same feeling. Including, by the way, a couple of female cops who refused to speak on the record. I’d say it was just paranoia if it was only one or two of us, but all of us?”
    “Maybe it’s just . . . nerves.”
    Bluntly, Dana said, “I think he’s watching us. And I have a very bad feeling about it.”
    “Well, you’re blond—”
    Dana shook her head. “I just got a peek at a list of women missing in the general area. And very few of them are blondes. Watch your back, Cheryl.”
    “I will. Thanks.” She watched the blond reporter walk away, hearing the hollowness in her own voice when she added half under her breath, “Thanks a lot.”
     
    “Jesus,” Mallory