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“If we can’t find her in missing persons, means we have to show her face to the public and ask them to call it in.” Fletch studies my eyes for a long moment. His honeycomb, like his daughter’s, to my green, just like my killer father’s.
Genetics are an amazing and complex thing.
“Means the mom who’s waiting for that return text will hear about this on the news, and not directly from us,” he murmurs. “Means the dad will learn his baby girl is gone in a really harsh fucking way.”
“We don’t have a lot of options here.” Taking out my phone, I drop into one of the chairs surrounding the table and consider my options. “We could take a photo of Jane on Minka’s table. Get the real thing onto the news.”
“Death is death, Arch. Even if he didn’t mess up her face.”
“So we call McNamara.” I speak of our composite artist. “Give him pictures and have him draw us something a little less gruesome. Call up Tiffany Hewitt, have her splash Jane on the morning news.”
He looks down at his wrist, to the watch strapped on so often, he has a tan line even in the winter. “It’s near two o’clock in the morning, Arch. Everyone we wanna talk to is asleep right now.”
“Not for much longer.”
Dialing Tiffany Hewitt first, I allow my heart rate to relax fractionally when she answers almost immediately.
Tiffany is a hotshot, up-and-coming news anchor, riding a wave toward stardom. Not so long ago, Miranda London was the most watched face in Copeland, but she was arrogant and mean. She knew she was a star, so she treated everyone around her like gum on the bottom of her shoe.
Then karma came up and slapped her hard enough to scramble her brains and leave her bedridden for a while.
Tiffany, on the other hand, seems humble and on the quieter side. She’s a bulldog for a story and she’s no one’s pushover, but where Miranda lacked empathy and a desire to do good, Tiffany has both in spades.
“This is Tiffany Hewitt.” Her voice is muffled. Sleepy and slow. “What?”
“Ms. Hewitt, this is Detective Malone from the Copeland City Police Department, Homicide Division.”
Instantly, her voice changes. Her sluggishness and grumpiness are wiped away, and in their place is an astute professional. “Yes, Detective? What’s happened?”
“I have a story I’d like you to run first thing in the morning. Start at six and repeat it every hour until I tell you to stop.”
“You have a murder victim? Or a suspect?”
“I have a face,” I counter sharply. “Someone I’d like information on. Under no circumstances are you to imply she’s deceased, a killer, or anything in between.”
“A person you’d like to contact you?”
She can’t. She’s dead. “I’d like for anyone who recognizes her to call me directly. I’ll have a drawing sent over to you in the next few hours, then you can run it around in circles and get me those tips. Can you do that?”
“Sure, Detective. Do you have my email? You can send whatever information I need there.”
“Yep, I have it. Go back to sleep, but I need this story fresh and rolling at six, and I want it done delicately. Someone loves her, okay? Someone’s day is about to be ruined.”
“O-okay,” she stammers. Knowing now that the face she receives will be that of a victim. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
“Excellent. I’ll make contact again in a few hours.”
Without waiting for her response, I kill the call and dial a different number, while on the other side of the table, Fletch collects photographs we’ve already taken from the scene.
“This is Brody McNamara.”
“Hey,” I jump straight in again. “It’s Detective Malone. I need you to draw me like one of your French girls.”
I don’t know where I find my moment of levity. Or why. But it makes Fletch smirk at least.
McNamara, not so much.
“You woke me up in the middle of the fucking night to joke around? Dude!”
