Joel Goldman - The Dead Man

No one else fit the profile as well as Corliss. No one else was as connected to the victims, knew their vulnerabilities, and shared their tormented history. And no one else had as many questions to answer.

Lucy didn't pick up when I called and neither did Simon. I was starting to shake from sitting around and doing nothing. I had to get out of the house, clear my head, and find a way to get to Corliss without falling apart.

I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, hiking boots and a barn jacket, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and tugged a wool cap around my ears and left the house, paying the teenage snow shoveling crew on my way out. They pocketed the money and cut over to the next block south looking for more business.

A city snowplow had made one halfhearted pass down my block, leaving a slick hardpack on the pavement bordered by a foot high wall of snow shoved against the curb, blocking driveways and imprisoning cars that had been left on the street. I headed east toward The Roasterie Cafe, a coffee shop a few blocks away on Brookside Boulevard.

I was near the end of the next block when a black SUV turned onto the street from behind me, the driver at first matching my slow pace. Glancing over my shoulder, I couldn't tell whether the driver was looking for an address or just being careful or was following me and not caring that I knew, relying on the fact that I was too far from home to turn back. The windows were tinted, the sun adding an impenetrable glare, making the driver invisible. The car didn't belong to any of my neighbors and it wasn't a typical Bureau surveillance vehicle.

I scanned the street. No red-faced, over weight, out of shape, middle-aged men were shoveling their driveways, auditioning for heart attacks. No kids in mittens and ski caps were launching sleds off the slopes of their yards or rolling a snowman to its feet. No moms in boots and bathrobes were wading through the snow, clutching their nightgowns to their throats while fishing for the morning paper.

I was out in the open on icy, snowy terrain, alone, exposed, and unarmed when the driver accelerated, wheels spinning and whining against the snowpack, the chassis shimmying, tires gaining purchase, the car closing the distance before I could react, skidding to a stop, the front end sliding past me and kissing the snowbank. The driver lowered the tinted window. It had been months, but I hadn't forgotten Rachel Firestone's volcanic red hair, emerald green eyes, and disarming smile.

"You could have phoned. Would have been a lot safer," I said, pointing at her right fender, buried in the snow.

She threw the car into reverse and yanked it free, then shifted into drive, aiming true east, standing on the brake, and making the SUV shudder and me shake.

"How's that?"

"Better, but you still could have phoned."

"You turned me down for an interview the last time and I wasn't sure you'd take my call after the story in today's paper."

"I'd have said hello."

"But that's it."

"Hello and good-bye," I said and started walking.

She followed, her car gliding alongside me. "It's news. You're news."

"Your luck, not mine."

"Why do you make this so hard?"

I stopped and faced her. She had alabaster skin, her cheeks tinged rose by the cold.

"I'm not interested in selling papers."

"Your luck, not mine. Where are you going? I'll bet to The Roasterie."

"You're a smart reporter."

"I'll give you a ride. It's cold."

I started walking again. "No thanks, I've seen how you drive in winter and I want to live to see the spring."

"C'mon, Jack. I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

"That's all I'm worth? A two dollar cup of coffee?"

"That's a lot on my budget."

"I'll pass," I said.

"Okay, buy your own coffee. Just tell me one thing?"

"What's that?"

"Why does the FBI want your head on a pike outside the village gates?"

I declined Rachel's offer of a ride, using the rest of my walk to think about the bait she'd thrown at my feet.

News stories, like murder cases, are organic, living creatures that grow arms and legs and reproduce. Random chance, chaos, the rule of unintended consequences, and the probability that we are all within six degrees of separation of one another combine to spawn new stories and new cases, the pregnant sometimes the last to know they're with child.

Rachel began with the murders and stumbled onto a parallel track about me, following the road map the FBI had laid out for her. She wanted information about both stories and so did I, but trading for it was tricky, particularly when one party wants to go public and the other wants to stay private, when a good deal may be measured more by what you didn't give up than by what you got.

I crossed Brookside Boulevard. and walked a block south to the cafe. Rachel's SUV was parked on the street, tilted to port, the starboard wheels resting on a snow berm built by the city's plows. The aroma of fresh ground coffee picked me up before I hit the door.

The Roasterie is Kansas City's homegrown coffee company. The owner started roasting coffee beans in the basement of his house in Brookside. When he outgrew the basement he moved to the city's west side, later opening the cafe in his old neighborhood. It's as good a place for a cup of coffee as there is, embracing Brookside's laid-back ambience with overstuffed chairs, soft light, and easy music.

Rachel was waiting at a table in a corner near the door, two steaming mugs in front of her. I took the seat across from her, my back to the wall.

"Coffee tastes better in a mug than in a paper cup," she said. "And these mugs feel great in your hand. Your cup is unleaded."

"Good guess."

"It wasn't a guess. I researched your movement disorder when I wrote the stories last year. Caffeine is not your friend."

I took two dollars from my wallet and laid them on the table, raised the cup, and took a sip. "Thanks."

She'd engineered this meeting so I let her take the lead, not wanting to appear too anxious to make a deal, preferring to let her set the floor in our negotiations by going first.

"You read my story?"

"All of it."

"At least admit that we used a decent picture of you," she said.

"I didn't know you had more than one to choose from."

"We have others," she said, setting her cup on the table. "From Wendy's funeral."

"Thanks for not using one of those."

"You're welcome. What did you think?"

"You covered a lot of territory."

"Did I get it right?"

"Too late to worry about that now."

"It's never too late. There's always tomorrow's paper. This story has legs, a lot of them."

"You're good at what you do. You'll get it all by the time it's over."

"I could use your help," she said, leaning back in her chair, twisting the diamond ring on her left hand.

"Getting married?"

She smiled, her eyes flickering with doubt. "Next month, in California. It's what my girlfriend wants."

"That's not exactly an enthusiastic endorsement of the institution of marriage."

She dipped her chin, nodded, and gave her ring another twirl. "Let's just say I have an easier time committing to my work."

"Trust me, it may be harder to commit to the people you love but the fringe benefits are a lot better than the ones you get on the job."

"Voice of experience?"

"Yeah, all of it hard."

"Like what happened to your daughter?"

"Like what happened to her."

She sighed, hunching over the table. "I know you're right but this is such a screwy business, I don't know whether I can't let go of it or whether it can't let go of me. I start out writing a story about the murder of Anne Kendall and the next thing I know there's a serial killer on the loose and my FBI source is whispering in my ear about you and your daughter and this crazy mailman who stole everyone's mail. How does that happen?"