Oh, to be eighteen and barely coherent, Jerry thought, stifling a sigh. “Yep, I’m that guy.”
“You’re not a cop anymore.” Blake’s tone was accusatory. He frowned, his eyes going right toward the ID clipped to Jerry’s breast pocket. “You’re just a—”
“He’s a cop on this case,” Torrance interjected smoothly. “That ID is real, son.”
“So you don’t think Abby Maddox deserves to be in prison.” Jerry looked down at the kid, who looked confused and desperately unhappy, as if he wished the bed would swallow him up. “You don’t think she’s guilty of attempting to murder me.”
“Hells no!” Blake said hotly, and once the words were out, his face turned a deeper shade of red. “It’s just . . . I’m sorry what happened to you and all, but come on, dude. She’s gotta be fucked up, you know? Being with Ethan Wolfe for so long. That’s bound to mess with her head.” He looked at Jerry earnestly. “I don’t think she meant to hurt you, honestly.”
Torrance wisely stepped forward. He placed a hand on Jerry’s shoulder and Jerry took a step back. “Was that your blog I just saw on your computer? The Serial Killer Files? What do you write about on there?”
“Serial killers, duh.” Blake scratched his head and little flakes of dandruff floated to his shoulders. “I do profiles. I guest post all the time on other sites, too. I’m pretty much the go-to guy for killers.” He lifted his chin, obviously proud of himself.
“Is that like a hobby?” Torrance asked. “Whatever happened to stamp collecting? Or sports?”
“It’s not a hobby, it’s my job. And killing is a sport,” the kid said with a grin. Jerry shuddered.
“Abby Maddox has heard about your blog, and she thinks you’re a total freak.” The lies rolled off the detective’s tongue with ease. When Blake showed surprise, he added, “She gave us all your letters, too. She said you’re a stalker and she wants you to stop writing her.”
“No way, she didn’t say that.” Blake started picking at a pimple on his chin. “I never wrote anything bad, and I’ve only sent like a dozen. She’d never say that. Is that why you’re here?”
“Has she ever written you back?”
“No, but—”
“Why would you keep writing her, then? Wouldn’t you think that after the first, say, two letters, that if someone hasn’t written you back, it means they’re not interested?”
The kid’s thin shoulders slumped. The pimple on his chin was oozing blood and pus. He grabbed a tissue and pressed it to his face. “If she wanted me to stop, why wouldn’t she just tell me to stop.” It came out a statement, not a question, and the kid suddenly seemed defeated. Jerry almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Blake looked up at Jerry. “Maybe when you see her next time, you could tell her I’m not a freak. Tell her I’m her biggest fan and I’ve written like, twenty blog posts about her. I think she’s amazing, and I’d love to interview her for my site. Will you tell her that?”
“That you’re not a freak? Sure, I’ll tell her.” Jerry kept his face expressionless. “As for the blog interview, you do know she’s not allowed to access the Internet, don’t you? How can she even read your blog?”
Blake’s face fell again and he was quiet for a moment. “Right,” he said. “Look, what do you guys want? I got stuff to do.”
Jerry pulled the chair from the desk and sat down across from him. “We want to know where you’ve been the last few days.”
The kid looked at Torrance as if he was wondering whether this was a real question. He looked back at Jerry. “I was home.”
“All week?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t go to school? Work?”
“I work part-time at Fred Meyer.” Blake was referring to the locally owned Northwest superstore. “I’m a stock boy. At the one in Ballard.”
“But you weren’t working there this week.”
“Hells no. I was home.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“No.” Blake began to fidget. “My dad works all the time. He works on a crab boat, and he’s gone for a couple weeks at a time. Look, what’s this about? Did something happen? Do you think I did something?”
Jerry stood up and put the chair back near the desk. “There was a murder downtown. A woman’s body was found in a hotel yesterday morning.”
“And you think I did it?” Blake finally stood up again, his ears red and his eyes wide with surprise, and maybe even a little excitement. His reaction disturbed Jerry. “Because I . . . I write a blog about serial killers and I have a boner for Abby Maddox? Like, who doesn’t? That’s kind of a . . . a . . .”
“Stretch?” Torrance said helpfully.
“Yeah,” Blake said, his head bobbing back and forth between Torrance and Jerry. “I’m not a murderer just because I blog about murderers.” His eyes widened. “Hey, is there some connection between Abby and the victim?”
It was a surprisingly intelligent question for a kid who didn’t seem that bright.
Torrance didn’t answer. Instead, he dug into his breast pocket. “How about a cheek swab?” He held up what looked like a long Q-tip wrapped in a skinny Ziploc bag. “Just so we can rule you out.”
The kid’s eyes showed real fear. “You want my DNA?”
“It just takes a second. One swipe and this all goes away. We’ll never have to bother you again.”
“I don’t know.” Jeremiah Blake’s eyes were darting all over the place, reminding Jerry of a rabbit stuck in a hole. “I . . . I guess.”
“Great.” Torrance leaned in. “Open up.” The kid did as he was instructed and Torrance swabbed the inside of his cheek. Sticking the Q-tip back in the plastic bag, Torrance sealed it and put it back in his pocket. “Thanks for being so cooperative. We’ll get out of your hair now. Listen, stay available, okay? Don’t go anywhere or it’ll look really suspicious. We might have to chat with you again.”
The two men made their way out of the room and back down the hall, where the air seemed fresher. Blake followed behind.
“Hey, can I do an interview with you?” The kid touched Jerry’s arm. “I think my readers would want to know your side of the story. I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up, but, like, dude, you don’t really come across as a nice guy in the press.”
“Hells no,” Jerry said, closing the door behind him.
chapter 18
JEREMIAH BLAKE WAS one creepy kid.
Jerry had been scrolling through the eighteen-year-old’s blog for the past hour, and he was starting to feel like he needed a hot shower with disinfectant soap and a good scrub with one of those scratchy long-handled sponges. While the kid’s writing was good, the content was damned twisted. Detailed profiles of serial killers, dissections of killing methods and crime scenes . . . was this what kids were into these days? The Serial Killer Files was a very active blog—lively discussions ensued in the comments section after every post. Jerry didn’t think he’d ever understand why people were so turned on by death.
There were voices out in the reception area and he wondered who was here. Torrance had asked him to work at an unoccupied desk at the East Precinct, but Jerry had declined, preferring the familiarity and comfort of his own office. The last time he’d been at the precinct had been the night Maddox had—
He scratched his throat and forced the thought out of his mind. A few seconds later, Torrance poked his head in.
“Busy?”
Jerry peeled his dry eyes away from the computer, grateful for the distraction. “How’d it go with the neighbor?”
Torrance lumbered into the office and plopped himself into the chair across from Jerry’s desk. He’d stayed behind on Palmer Lane to talk to the man who lived next door to the Blakes. “Went well. He was only too happy to dish.”
“Hold that thought. Hey, Danny!” Jerry called through the open door. “Come in here for a sec.”
A moment later his assistant was in the doorway. “What’s up?”
“Can you g
o through all the posts on Jeremiah Blake’s blog? From a year ago, onwards. I feel nauseated. You have a stronger stomach for this stuff than I do.”
“Everybody has a stronger stomach for this stuff than you do,” Torrance said. Jerry gave him a look.
“I’ve been reading some of the posts already,” Danny said. “It’s not that bad. Just profiles of murderers and some of the victims, and photos of—”
Jerry lifted a hand. “Just read them all, please.”
“And what am I looking for, exactly?”
“Anything that strikes you as weird,” Torrance said. “Trust your instincts.”
“He blogged about you guys, by the way,” Danny said. “On the FreeAbbyMaddox site. I’ve been keeping tabs on it. He said the cops paid him a visit. Earned him some credibility, and now all her fans think he’s cool.”
Torrance looked at Jerry. “Didn’t I tell him not to say anything?” He looked back at Danny. “What else has he written about there?”
“All kinds of stuff. Whoever runs the site must not care who posts, so there’s a lot of stuff to sift through. The site attracts a lot of freaks, all obsessed with Abby Maddox.”
“It’s gonna take a while to find out who runs it,” Torrance said to Jerry. “The IP address that registered the site tracked all the way to India.”
“She has fans in India?” Jerry couldn’t fathom anyone in India having heard of Abby Maddox, let alone caring enough about her to run a website in her name.
“That’s doubtful,” Torrance said, and Danny grinned as if she knew what his former partner was about to say next. “I’m guessing the site owner has likely rerouted the—” He stopped when he saw the look on Jerry’s face. “You know what, why don’t we just wait and see what they find out.”
Danny laughed.
“All right, that’s enough, you two,” Jerry said. “I’m not that dumb when it comes to technology. Get to work on that blog, Danny. Great job so far.”
When she had closed the door behind her, Torrance said, “So listen, I looked up the other names Danny gave me and none of them look like possibles. I questioned all of them, and every single person has an alibi for where they were when one of the victims was killed. Jeremiah Blake, on the other hand, doesn’t have an alibi for any of them.”
“And the madam? Estelle Kane?”
“Having a hard time tracking her. Heard she might be out of town; I’m working on it. So far we know Claire Holt was a pro. The first two, no way to tell right now. If they were escorts, their friends and family don’t seem to be aware of it, but that’s no surprise.”
Jerry frowned and glanced back at his computer screen, still showing Blake’s blog. His picture was in the top right corner and it showed a smiling, rather mangy-looking kid. Jerry pointed to it. “I don’t know, Mike. The kid’s clearly weird, socially awkward, stays at home all day playing video games . . . he’s like the poster child for ‘angry misfit.’ It’s almost too perfect.”
“If it fits, it fits.” Torrance shrugged. “His high school is closed tonight, but I’m going to stop in first thing tomorrow and see what else I can find out about him. His school records should tell us something.”
“All right, so what did the neighbor say?” Jerry asked.
“He had some good info, actually.” Torrance reached for his pack of Marlboros, saw the look on Jerry’s face, and stuck it back in his breast pocket. “The kid, believe it or not, was some kind of genius. Really high IQ, graduated from school two years early.”
“You’re kidding me. He could barely string a sentence together.”
“That, my friend, is his brain on drugs.” Torrance sighed and shook his head. “The neighbor said he’s had some serious mental and emotional issues ever since his mom died when he was five. He became painfully shy, didn’t feel comfortable around other kids, and always kept to himself. The neighbor said the kid could have gone to any college he wanted, full academic scholarship. But he refused to apply, started getting into weed and who knows what else a couple of years ago, and since his father’s away all the time, nobody really did anything about it.”
“How nice of Jeremiah Blake Senior to take an interest in his son’s well-being.”
“Point is, we shouldn’t underestimate him. He’s young, but his IQ’s probably double what ours is. He’s certainly capable of planning something like this.”
Jerry shrugged. “So what? That doesn’t mean the kid’s smart. There’s a difference between book smart and life smart.” He cracked his knuckles. “I still think it’s too easy. If he was so smart, why are we looking at him? Why didn’t he cover his tracks better?”
There was a knock on the door. Danny poked her head in. “Uh, guys? I think I found something.”
“On Blake’s blog? That was quick.”
“I emailed you the link. When you log into your email, just click on it and it’ll take you right to the page. Want me to do it?”
Jerry snorted. He found it both amusing and irritating that Danny always assumed he didn’t know how to use email, or the Internet. Okay, so he was no technology expert, and more than once he’d sent out emails saying “Attached please find . . .” without actually attaching anything, but hey, he wasn’t that bad.
He logged into his email program and clicked on the link Danny sent him. It was a blog post written six months earlier, and it was clear from the first sentence that this post was different from the others. It was a story of some kind, written in the first person. He read it out loud so Torrance could hear.
“‘Her long dark hair trails down her back and without turning around, she raises a hand and beckons me closer. She faces the wall, her palms flat on the surface, and I move forward until I can feel her through my clothes. I slowly peel off her blouse, sliding it up and over, and her skirt, sliding it down and under, until she is naked and panting and breathless with her desire. She wants me. She spreads her legs and I reach between them and—’”
“Skip to the end,” Torrance said.
“‘I enter her,’” Jerry said, ignoring him, “‘and listen as she gasps my name over and over again. I stroke her hair, murmuring her name, and I tell her how much I love her, how good it feels to be inside her, and as she climaxes, I pull it tighter, and tighter, until I can no longer hear her, until she is quiet and still and no longer breathing. I am satisfied.’”
“Oh hell.” Torrance reached forward to turn Jerry’s computer screen around so it faced him. “Did he really write that?”
“It sounds like a lot of the sex fantasy stuff that gets posted on the FreeAbbyMaddox site. He said in the comments section underneath that it was just a short story.” Danny was still lingering at the doorway. “Fiction. He made it up.”
“I know what a short story is, Danny,” Jerry snapped, giving his assistant a dirty look. “What was the reaction?” he said to Torrance.
“Mixed.” The detective had taken hold of his mouse and was scrolling down the page.
Danny looked thoughtful. “I know writers say fiction is just made-up crap, but personally, I think even made-up crap’s gotta come from somewhere.”
Torrance looked up. “I think I agree with you,” he said to her, and they exchanged a smile.
Jerry sighed and stood up. “I’ve had enough for today. I’m going home to sleep and I might not come in tomorrow. Lock up the office, okay?” he said to Danny. “All lights off and don’t forget the alarm.”
His assistant gave him the same dirty look he’d given her a moment earlier. “I know what locking up is, Jerry.”
chapter 19
SHE DIDN’T MIND the job. She really didn’t.
She knew it was customary for a lot of the escorts to complain about what they did, to pretend they hated having sex for money, as if being all moral about it somehow made them better people. So ridiculous. It didn’t matter what you thought about what you did, it mattered what you actually did, and if you fucked for money, you were a whore. Plain and simple. Alessandra (real name: Alice
Bennett) didn’t get what the big deal was. Whoring was better than waitressing, working retail, and cleaning houses. All shit she’d done to earn money before she started stripping, and before she’d hooked up with Estelle.
It was easy work. The clients paid the modeling agency directly and so she didn’t have to worry about handling money. Condoms were a must. And she wasn’t one of those stupid girls who’d fuck bareback for an extra five hundred under the table—so not worth it, too many diseases. The way to survive in this business was to treat prostitution like the job it was. Be smart, be polite, give the client what he wanted (or she—Alice’s specialty was couples), keep your nose clean (because drugs fucked up your judgment), and everything would be just fine.
Alice was more tired than usual tonight, having worked the last three days straight. But the money had been too good for her to pass up this last-minute Monday night request, and she knew the 5-hour Energy drink she’d downed a few minutes earlier would kick in soon. After tonight, she was taking a couple of days off. She needed to study. Midterms were coming up.
She strode down the hallway of the Phoenix, a boutique hotel just outside the shopping district. She passed a mirror but didn’t bother to glance over—she knew she looked good. Long, dark hair, loose and flowy (she’d been raking in some good money since she’d gone from blonde to brunette—who knew?), jeans, boots, T-shirt, leather jacket. She’d been booked for a GFE tonight, and while they weren’t her favorite—too much talking, not enough doing—she was up for it. Estelle had agreed to discuss upping her percentage to a fifty-fifty split instead of the standard forty-sixty all the girls got, once she hit the one-year mark. Which would be in two weeks.
She knocked on the door. It opened immediately.
“Right on time,” the client said.
She stared at him, then checked the number on the door.
“Alessandra, right?” he said.
“That’s me,” she said, looking him over dubiously. Tall but impossibly skinny, he had acne and a mop of hair that hadn’t seen a barber in way too long. Hell, he was just a kid. “How old are you?”
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