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‘Only briefly.’
'Journalists, editors, columnists. They're always searching for the next best job offer. Aside from the highest-paid ones, hardly any of them stay at the same publication for long. This guy's been there for, what, twelve years?'
Ella tapped a pen against her chin, connecting the dots, weaving a narrative from the new fragments. ‘A puzzle editor... comfortable in his niche, maybe? But it's the kind of job that requires creativity, cleverness, a knack for complexity. All traits that our riddle-loving killer seems to possess.’
‘Could be hiding in plain sight,’ Ripley suggested. ‘A puzzle editor is a perfect cover for someone taunting victims with puzzles.’
‘A double bluff,’ Ella said. ‘Maybe we should pay Hargreaves a visit.’
Ripley checked her watch. ‘It’s just after eight.’
‘The arrest hour,’ Ella confirmed. When apprehending suspects, law enforcement tended to act during the early hours because it reduced the risk of confrontation and escape attempts. It was a time when most people were still grappling with the remnants of sleep, their reactions dulled and defenses lowered.
‘So he’s a puzzle master who owns the garages where our unsub tried to lure his last victim,’ Ripley said. ‘Can you find out what school he went to?’
‘Doesn’t say,’ Ella said. ‘But our unsub didn’t have to have attended the same school as these victims. People from different schools mingle all the time. He’s the right age, though.’
‘True. We go now,’ Ripley said, her tone resolute. ‘Before he gets any inkling that we’re onto him.’
Ella grabbed her things and set out. Outside, the world was still waking up, oblivious to the dark undercurrents flowing beneath its surface. With the killer’s riddles exposed, she felt closer to him, yet profoundly aware of how elusive and mysterious he remained.
But killer or not, he couldn’t hide forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ella approached the reception desk in the foyer of the Stamford Insider, where a young woman with an attentive smile greeted her.
‘Good morning, how can I help you?’ she asked.
‘We need to speak with David Hargreaves. It’s important,’ Ella said.
The receptionist clicked around on her desktop and said, ‘Mr. Hargreaves isn’t expecting anyone this morning.’
Ella waited for a follow up but none came. ‘If he’s not expecting anyone, that means he’s free.’
Ripley leaned on the desk and flashed her badge. ‘FBI. We’re not leaving until we speak with Hargreaves. Make it happen.’
The receptionist recoiled at Ripley’s comment and scrambled for her telephone. She punched in a three-digit number and tapped her fingers while she waited for the call to connect. A moment later, she replaced the receiver.
‘No answer?’ asked Ella.
‘No. He never answers,’ the receptionist said. ‘Mr. Hargreaves is quite particular about his working methods.’
Ella considered that David Hargreaves – or their unsub – had an obsessive-compulsive nature about him. She’d profiled the offender as having some kind of personality disorder, so the pieces were a perfect fit. She kept herself calm, not wanting to get ahead of herself in case of eventual disappointment.
‘Can you direct us to his office, then?’ Ella asked.
The receptionist hesitated, clearly torn between following protocol and the pressing authority in front of her. After a moment, she nodded. ‘He's on the third floor, office three-hundred. But I should warn you, he really doesn't like being disturbed.’
‘We'll take our chances,’ Ripley said with a half-smile. They headed across the marble floor to the elevator, leaving the glitzy foyer behind. The elevator doors slid open, and Ella pushed the button for the third floor.
‘What’s our strategy?’ she asked.
‘Find out where he’s been the past three nights. Talk about the victims, watch his reactions. He won’t be able to hide his response to hearing their names.’
Ella took it on board as she envisioned her meeting with the man in office three-hundred. ‘Got it,’ she said. ‘The body says it all.’
‘You can’t hide rage. It’s the great equalizer. Our guy could be Gary Oldman – he’ll still give something away when he hears the names of his tormenters-turned-victims.’
