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“Linds, why don’t you call me back? I get worried.”
“I just walked in,” I told her.
“Joe is still out of town?”
“He’ll be back tomorrow, I think.”
“You sound like the walking dead.”
“Thank you. That’s how I feel, if the walking dead feel anything.”
“Yeah, well, pregnancy does that. It also makes you feel like you’ve lost about fifty IQ points, as I recall.”
I laughed, and my sister prodded me to tell her about my two active cases. I held a few things back, but I gave her the basic rundown on the heads found at the Ellsworth compound. And I told Cat about the triple homicide that had kept me working late tonight, first at the scene, then at the Hall, then at the morgue, and finally at the forensics lab until a half hour ago.
“The guy is some kinda vigilante,” I told Cat. “I guess he doesn’t trust the cops will bring in the bad guys so he figures he’s the man to do the job.”
“Lindsay. You’re saying he’s armed and dangerous. And you’re trying to bring him down. Why won’t he go after you?”
“I’ll be fine, Cat, really.”
“Bull. You can’t know that.”
Cat was now beginning her lectures on the value of rest, on how I could burn out, on how my workload wasn’t good for the baby. I couldn’t argue with her. I just had to take it.
Then a call-waiting signal beeped in my ear. I checked the caller ID, and if I hadn’t been trying to get away from my sister, I never would have taken the call from Jason Blayney.
I told Cat I had an urgent call, said good-bye, and then put on a frosty voice for the crime reporter from the San Francisco Post.
Chapter 38
“IT’S LATE, MR. BLAYNEY. And listen, don’t call me again. The person you want to talk to is Bec Rollins in Media Relations. She’ll be happy to speak with you. Use my name.”
Blayney ignored me, pressed on. “We got off to a bad start, Sergeant, and I know it was my fault. I get a little carried away. Does that ever happen to you?”
“Does what ever happen to me?”
“Do you ever get a little carried away when you’re really into a case? In my situation, when I’m on a story, I want to live it, breathe it, dream it.”
Blayney was trying to bait me into saying Yes, I sometimes get carried away. Did he think I was stupid?
“I understand that sometimes reporters who are living, breathing, and dreaming their stories get carried away. They should take care that what they consider enthusiasm isn’t actually stalking or assault.”
Blayney laughed. “Okay, okay, you win, Sergeant. But I still have an offer for you.”
“Oh, really.”
I was tired. Unlike the dealers who’d died tonight, I had inhaled smoke. And unlike Chuck Hanni, I’d gotten soot all over me. I looked charred. I felt charred.
“Good night, Mr. Blayney.”
“Listen, I don’t think you’ll go to hell if you call me Jason. And here’s my offer.”
I sighed loudly.
“Have lunch with me. I want to tell you what I’m trying to do at the Post. I think you’ll see that I’m not a bad guy. I’m on your side. I could be even more on your side if we work together.”
I laughed at him. It was a genuine laugh. The guy was actually funny. I recognized a journalist’s trick of the trade: make friends with your subject and gain trust — then betray that trust.
