“Yes. I got it all.”
I hadn’t even said thank you to her. Thanks for the interview. I knew better than anyone how much courage it sometimes took just to open your mouth and talk.
“There’s a body here. A girl. It’s already going to dust. You know how they do.”
“I should have done more for her.”
“You did what you could.”
A new sound in the background: police sirens.
Without a closing word, Cormac hung up, and I heard silence. Silence inside, silence out.
Silence on the radio meant death.
Matt said, “Kitty? Time’s up. You can go thirty over if I cut out the public service announcements.”
I gave a painful, silent chuckle. Public service, my ass. I sat here every week pretending I was helping people, but when it came to really helping someone—
I took a deep breath. I’d never left a show unfinished. All I had to do was open my mouth and talk. “Kitty here, trying to wrap up. Estelle found her last cure. It’s not one I recommend.
“Vampires don’t talk about their weaknesses as weaknesses. They talk about the price. Their vulnerability to sunlight, wooden stakes, and crosses—it’s the price they pay for their beauty, their immortality. The thing about prices, some people always seem willing to pay, no matter how high. And some people are always trying to get out of paying at all. Thanks to Estelle, you now know what Elijah Smith and his Church offer, and you know the price. At least I could do that much for her. As little as it is. Until next week, this is Kitty Norville, Voice of the Night.”
Chapter 9
The police couldn’t go after Smith for anything. There wasn’t a body. The only crime they had evidence of was breaking and entering at the convenience store, and the suspect, Estelle, was gone. The Church caravan had pulled up stakes and left town by the next morning. If I hadn’t had the recording of the show proving otherwise, I could have believed that none of it had happened. Nothing had changed.
The next day, another mauling death downtown, the fourth this year, made the front page of the newspaper. A sidebar article detailing the police investigation included an interview with Hardin’s colleague, Detective Salazar, who happened to mention that one of the detectives on the case had consulted with Kitty Norville, the freaky
talk show host. Did that mean the police were seriously considering a supernatural element to these deaths? Were they part of some ritualistic serial killing? Or did they think a werewolf was on the loose downtown? The police made no official comment at this time. That didn’t stop the newspaper from speculating. Wildly. The press was calling him “Jack Junior,” as in Jack the Ripper.
Sheer, pigheaded determination got me through the day. Putting one foot in front of the other, thinking about things one step at a time, and not considering the big picture. The life-and-death questions. I stopped answering my phone altogether, letting voice mail screen calls. At least the CDC/CIA/FDA government spook didn’t leave any messages.
Jessi Hardin left three messages in the space of an hour. Then she showed up at my office. She crossed her arms and frowned. She looked like she needed a cigarette.
“I need you to take a look at the latest scene.”
I sat back in my chair. “Why not get that hit man, what was his name . . . oh, yeah, Cormac? He knows his stuff.”
“We got paw prints from three of the crime scenes. I took them to the university. Their wolf expert said it’s the biggest print he’s ever seen. It would have to be a 250-pound wolf. He says nature doesn’t make them that big. The precinct is actually starting to listen to me.”
“Oh, that’s right. You said you didn’t trust Cormac.”
“If you could come to the scene, identify any smells, or whatever it is you do, that would at least tell me that I’m dealing with the same killer.”
“Why don’t you just hire a professional?”
She unfolded her arms and started pacing. “Okay. Fine. How did you find out that I talked to the bounty hunter?”
“He told me.”
“Great,” she muttered.
“He wants to pool information. He has a point.”
“Look, at this stage I’m talking to everyone I can think of. I’m even consulting with someone from the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
I tilted my head. “You’re treating this like a serial killer case? Not an out-of-control monster?”