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“Maybe they’re on the phone with each other,” Lopez said.
Jo left another voice mail, then stabbed the phone off and glanced frantically around her desk. “Dammit, dammit, dammit. We can’t just sit around and wait for our killer to strike again.”
“There’s not much more we can do until we have access to at least some of those records,” Arnett said. “We’ve sent out alerts to everyone here and at the DA’s office that there’s a pending threat against members of law enforcement, and we’ve contacted DAs and detectives we know are associated with these suspects directly to warn them. Everybody’s on high alert. Whatever he tries next, our people are ready. With any luck they’ll catch him in the act and we’ll be done with all this.”
Jo paused, not sure whether to speak. Which in and of itself worried her—when had she ever not felt comfortable saying what was on her mind?
“The way Ossokov looked at you today,” she finally said, “wasn’t good. If he’s our killer, my guess is you’re high on his list.”
Arnett flapped a hand at her. “We all have a mile-long line of perps who’d like to take us out. I know how to take care of myself.”
Jo studied his face for a long moment, landing on the dark circles under his eyes, and the matching set on Lopez’s. “We all need to get some sleep so we can stay sharp. You two should head home.”
“What about you?” Lopez asked, indignant.
Jo stood. “Me too. But I think I’m gonna go have a little chat with Bernard on the way.”
Arnett grabbed his coat. “I’ll go with you.”
She shook her head. “I want to probe her on her sexual-violence awareness advocacy. I think she might be more willing to open up to another woman, alone.”
“See you tomorrow, then,” Arnett said.
Jo didn’t miss his narrowed eyes as she turned away.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
Bernard’s small, gray clapboard house was barely bigger than the detached garage that sat next to it at the end of the driveway. A tiny, quaint creek edged the property; the lawn was uneven, with a thick scattering of dead leaves built up amid the bushes that lined the buildings. The house also was in need of tender loving care, particularly the roof, whose tiles wouldn’t make it through the rapidly impending Massachusetts winter.
Since she’d called on her way over, Jo wasn’t surprised when the door opened before she reached it. Bernard wore yoga pants, an oversized SUNY Buffalo sweatshirt, and a deep crease in her forehead. She pulled the door back and gestured Jo in.
“Welcome to my humble abode.”
The door opened directly into a room the width of the house, divided only by furniture into a kitchen and a living room. A tiny hall, barely big enough to hold its three doors, bisected the rest of the house into what Jo guessed was two bedrooms and a bath. The contrast with the outside of the home was astonishing—walls freshly painted in a warm yellow complemented the red and cream furnishings, creating a happy, cozy, yet sophisticated space. “You have a charming home.”
Bernard glanced around distractedly. “Someday when I have the money, I’ll do up the exterior to match.”
“I hope someday is soon. You have a couple of roof tiles out there that are on life support.” Jo smiled to take the potential sting out of the words.
“I have a guy coming next week for that. I put it off as long as possible because I refuse to run up a mountain of credit card debt. Interest rates are how the rich keep the rest of us down.” Lacey half-smiled, then pointed to a bottle of wine on the glass coffee table. “Would you like a glass?”
“No, thank you,” Jo said.
“Hope you don’t mind if I have one,” Bernard said. “Anotherone if I’m telling the truth. Today’s been quite a day. Please, have a seat.”
Jo surreptitiously studied Bernard as she slid into the red armchair diagonal to the matching couch. At Fernando’s, Bernard’s emotions had been largely masked by her professional demeanor. Now, no doubt aided by the wine, her facade had dropped and her tension was on full display, from the too-wide eyes to the knee that wouldn’t stop bouncing. “Thanks for letting me stop by, I know it’s late. I’m struggling to get a handle on why our mystery texter chose you. I can’t help feel it’s key.”
“Something about this feels strange.” She filled her empty wine glass. “When you have to put your nose where folks don’t want it, you deal with more than a few threats. But this is different. My mind has been chasing circles around it, but I can’t come up with a damned thing.”
“I’ll jump right in then. Why did you and your husband divorce?” Jo asked.
Lacey took a swig of her wine. “Lots of reasons. But mainly, he wanted kids. I couldn’t have them.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jo said.
Lacey waved her off. “I’m not. At least, I’m not sorry I didn’t have kids withhim. Iamsorry I can’t have kids.”
Jo hesitated—no matter which way this went, it wouldn’t be pleasant. If she was wrong, her questions would be insulting. If she were right, the answers would be painful beyond words. She needed the most delicate approach possible. “No chance the problem was on his end?”
