Pretty Dead (25 page)

“You work for the
New York Times
,” Elise said once Jay Thomas answered his cell. “I need the publisher’s phone number.” She planned on going straight to the top. Payroll wouldn’t have the authority to share the information she was after.

“I don’t have that.”

“Don’t you work for the
New York Times
?”

“Yeah, but I don’t talk to the publisher. I met her one time at an event. Do you know how many employees they have? She wouldn’t even recognize my name.”

“Call whoever you report to and get it.”

“That won’t be easy.”

“Do you actually know anybody at the
New York Times
?” His elusive response struck her as odd. “I’m beginning to wonder if you really work there at all.”

As hoped, her words lit a fire under him. “Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

She hadn’t promised she’d try to track down the puzzle designer, but she also knew she wouldn’t be able to put it from her mind until she dug a little deeper. She spent most of her time chasing false leads. What was another one?

While waiting to hear back from Jay Thomas, she called the
New York Times
’ main line and was routed to the personnel department. A woman with a young voice answered. Elise introduced herself and zeroed in on her new suspicion: “Do you have a Jay Thomas Paul on staff there? A reporter?”

Her question was followed by a series of clicking keys. “Yes. Jay Thomas Paul, lifestyle reporter.” More key clicks. “Looks like he’s on extended vacation.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s taking some personal time. Employees do that now and then.”

“So he isn’t on assignment?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Okay, thank you.” It was a long shot, but she tried anyway: “I’d like the number of the publisher.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not authorized to give out that information.”

A knock at the open door of Elise’s office. She looked up, spotted Jay Thomas, and motioned for him to come in.

“Got it,” he whispered, tearing a sheet from the tablet he always carried. On the scrap of paper was the name and number of the publisher of the
New York Times.

Elise thanked the woman on the other end of the line, hung up, and leaned back in her office chair. “I just had an interesting conversation,” she told Jay Thomas. “With the personnel director at the
New York Times.
”

He blanched.

“The lovely person who answered the phone said you weren’t on assignment—that you were taking personal leave.”

“Yeah.” He looked down at the floor, then back up at her. “That’s true.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s not as weird as you might think. I read about you and Detective Gould in the paper, and I got the idea for the story. I pitched it to my supervisor, but he turned it down. To me, it was a no-brainer. I decided to take some time off and write it on my own. On spec. Reporters do that.”

“So you’re here on your own dime?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you lie?”

“I didn’t think you’d be willing to let me shadow you if you knew this wasn’t an assigned project.”

“What about the contract?”

“It was something I had drawn up. It’s legal and binding.”

He’d probably come down thinking he’d end up experiencing a John Berendt–style
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
adventure. It wasn’t the first time a reporter had moved to Savannah looking for fame. But instead of fame, Jay Thomas was living in a nasty dive, probably existing on ramen noodles and cheap beer.

“I’ll leave,” he said. “I’ll pack up my things and get out of here.”

Once again she felt sorry for him. “No. That’s okay.”

“I don’t have to go?” He looked baffled and astounded and as grateful as a puppy.

“It doesn’t really change anything,” Elise said. Except his story might never be published anywhere.

Eager to make himself useful and show his gratitude, he asked, “Do you need anything? Food? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be nice.”

He smiled and took off down the hall.

Elise called the number Jay Thomas had given her. The publisher’s assistant answered the phone. The words “chief of police” opened doors, and within a minute of placing the call, she was speaking with the publisher herself.

“A large part of the appeal of the puzzle is the mystery about the designer,” the woman, Yvonne Harper, said. “I don’t know who it is. Nobody here knows who it is. And even if I did know, I wouldn’t share that information. The puzzle can be credited with single-handedly rejuvenating hardcopy newspaper sales across the country. Our subscriptions have tripled in the last year. People want to hold the paper in their hands. When you’re standing in line waiting for a latte, strangers discuss the daily puzzle. People are engaging in real conversations.”

“I’m not disputing or negating the phenomenon,” Elise said. “My partner and I work the puzzle every day. But you have to understand when I tell you my homicide team might have made a connection between the puzzles and the murders taking place here in Savannah.”

“My guess is that the designer reads the paper. He—everybody here refers to the designer as a he, but it could be female—is interested in serial killers. A lot of people are. If you work the puzzles, you know they’re topical. The murders in Savannah have made national news, especially the recent death of your chief of police. Listen, I’d like to help you, and I’m sorry for the losses your city is suffering, but I think you’re reaching here. And my hands are tied. Without a court order, I won’t release what little information I have.”

“Then you’ll be seeing an order from the FBI.” Lamont might finally earn his keep.

A thoughtful pause. “Okay. But I should tell you that the column is syndicated. It doesn’t even originate here.”

“What company?”

“We use only two syndication companies. Unified and Broad Reach.”

“Do you have contacts there?”

She rattled off names and phone numbers. “You didn’t hear that from me.”

Once Elise hung up, she tracked down Lamont and gave him the numbers, telling him to show her what he could do.

Twenty-four hours later, Lamont knocked on Elise’s office door and handed her a single sheet of printer paper. “There you go,” he said. “For all the good it will do you. Money is being sent to an offshore account in Denmark with no trail. I suspect the use of a third-party intermediary. That’s pretty common.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his white shirt going tight in the biceps. The guy obviously worked out, and even that seemed creepy; she wasn’t sure why. Probably because to her mind Lamont had simply reached the tipping point where he didn’t need to do much of anything to evoke revulsion.

“While your partner is in jail, you’re chasing some crazy theory about a crossword puzzle designer. Brilliant.”

She refused to be baited. “How do we trace this intermediary?”

“Can’t be done. Maybe a branch of government like the CIA would have the resources, but they’re too busy and smart to get involved in hormonal nonsense like this.”

At first she thought his remarks were just your average bullying, but she was beginning to suspect he was trying to get her to lose her cool, and she wouldn’t even be surprised if he was recording their encounters.

“Thanks for the information,” she said, swiveling away from him to face her desk.

He let out a sound of disgust as his footsteps echoed down the hall and away from her.

Elise put in a call to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, giving the operator her badge number. “I’m looking for someone who specializes in investigating offshore accounts.”

The young female on the other end of the line said, “I’m sorry, but at this time we don’t have anyone who deals with those matters. You might want to contact your local branch of the FBI.”

“Didn’t you have a young kid there at one time . . . His name was something like Sam . . . Samuel . . . He tracked down a computer hacker.”

“Simon. He’s still with us.”

“Could you put me through to him?”

Although interested, Simon doubted he’d be able to come up with any answers. “That’s not really my thing,” he said. “But I can give it a try.”

While they talked, she scanned the paper Lamont had handed her. “Give me your GBI e-mail address and I’ll send it.”

“I’m not promising anything.”

“Just do what you can.”

She hung up, typed in his address, and hit “Send.”

CHAPTER 40

T
wenty-four hours after Elise figured out his deception, Jay Thomas was lying on the bed in his motel room, depressed and watching television in an effort to fill the lonely evening. The movie was boring, and he couldn’t concentrate. When his cell phone indicated a text message, he welcomed the distraction.

He hoped it was Elise, which was ridiculous, because why would she text him at night? But he fantasized about her reaching out to him, texting to invite him to meet her for a drink. Just friends. Or coworkers, partners, chewing the fat about the case. Or maybe more. More would be okay too. And it would add to his story. Any of those things would add to his story.

Instead, the message was from Chuck, the salesman Jay had met at the Chameleon.

I’m back in town. Want to get together?

Jay Thomas felt a rush of excitement. He shut off the television, tossed down the remote, and typed his reply.

Yes.
Smiley face.
Where?

I have a room at Traveler’s Haven on Pennsylvania Avenue. Room 234.

Want me to bring anything?

Yourself.

Jay’s heart beat faster. They’d swapped numbers the last time, but Jay was accustomed to one-night stands, so he hadn’t been surprised when Chuck hadn’t called him back and hadn’t responded to texts. But that didn’t mean Jay hadn’t hoped to see him again.

Now he wanted to run to his car and drive over the speed limit to get to the hotel. Instead, he took a shower, scrubbed himself down, and briskly toweled off, finishing with deodorant. Clean clothes, glasses back on his face, deep breath.

At the last moment, he happened to think of a few things he wanted to bring along, things that could make the night more pleasurable.

Chuck answered Jay’s knock with a welcoming smile. They embraced.

“How long will you be in town?” Jay asked, setting aside the paper bag he was carrying.

“A week.”

“I was surprised to get your text because . . . well, you didn’t respond to my earlier ones.” Jay hoped that didn’t sound like a complaint.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot going on in my life.”

“I understand.”

Jay thought they might make love right away, but Chuck wanted to talk. He ordered pizza and beer, and they sat on the bed eating and catching up. It was nice.

“How are things going with the police department job?” Chuck asked. “Getting along with the detectives any better?”

Jay was so grateful to have someone interested in him and interested in his job and interested in how he spent his days that he went into detail about the murders.

And Chuck listened.
He
listened!

Jay had a buzz going, so that might explain his imprudent behavior. Even though he knew it was unwise, he pulled out his phone and showed Chuck photos he’d taken at crime scenes, photos Elise and David didn’t know about.

Chuck took a swallow of beer and asked, “Have you ever thought about killing somebody?”

“What? No!”

“Come on. Be honest. Sometime, somewhere, there has to have been somebody you thought of killing.”

Jay stared at him, horrified. “Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“My ex-wife.”

Jay wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting a lot of what was happening right now. “You used to be married?”

“Yeah.”

Jay didn’t like the direction the conversation was going, but he played along. “So, how would you kill her? Would you do it yourself, or hire somebody?”

“I’d strangle her. Because I’d want the pleasure of watching her life drain away.”

People were never what they seemed. Never. For some reason, Jay had kinda wanted Chuck to remain this average person who golfed in his spare time. This new Chuck threw off his game plan.

“I have a thing about women,” Chuck said, as if needing to explain why he was so bloodthirsty. “I think it’s because I have to hide who I really am, and it makes me mad. I get so pissed about it. So when I hear this stuff about the Savannah Killer . . . I get it. I understand.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Sorry.” Chuck put the pizza box aside and reached for Jay, pulling him close and looking contrite. But how could Jay forget what he’d just revealed?

“You’re so sweet, so innocent,” Chuck said. “I’d never hurt you.” He kissed him, then pulled away to look into Jay’s eyes. “I’m really glad I could share this with you. I’ve been keeping it bottled up for a long time.”

Jay relaxed. A little.

Chuck pushed him back on the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt. “You smell so good.”

“It’s motel soap.”

Chuck laughed. “See. Innocent. Have you been doing the crossword puzzle?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice one of them had my name in it?”

Jay shifted so Chuck could pull his shirt from his shoulders and toss it aside. Then he went to work on Jay’s pants. “I did. Shortly after we met. I thought that was a weird coincidence.”

“I loved it. I took it as a sign, as more than a coincidence.”

Pants and underwear joined the shirt on the floor, until Jay was naked and Chuck was still fully dressed.

“Would you want to tie me up?” Jay asked. “I brought rope.” Why had he said that? Especially after Chuck’s confession?

His friend laughed in delight. “You want me to tie you up after I’ve been talking about murder?”

And then Jay understood that the rope would be the ultimate expression of trust after what Chuck had shared. “You can do whatever you want to me.”

“Jay, Jay, Jay.” A shake of his head. “Don’t you know you can’t trust anybody?”