The Other Daniel - A Camille Grisham Novella (4 page)

She sat at her desk after returning from the
City Perk with a pen firmly pressed against the paper, as if the
sheer force of her grip would summon the words that had thus far
eluded her. An hour later she had nothing to show for her efforts
other than a jagged hole in the paper created by the sharp fountain
tip. Agent Crawley would have to wait at least one more day for her
decision, and if Camille were being honest with herself, she would
admit that tomorrow would most likely produce the same result.

Burying the notebook as far down in her desk
drawer as she could, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to
Jacob Deaver.

Curious to know more about him, she turned
to her computer for the requisite Google search of his name. All
she managed to find were two Boston Globe articles written in 2011
and 2013 respectively. Standard crime beat material. There were no
images of Jacob or other bibliographical references. The results
for Daniel Sykes’s supposed autobiography were similarly scarce.
There was no title, publisher, or author information. If the book
was as close to publication as Jacob claimed, there should have at
least been some noise on the tabloid sites. But there was
nothing.

Camille wanted to take this lack of
information as proof that the details Jacob provided were not
truthful, or, at the very least, grossly exaggerated. But she knew
that when it came to anything related to Daniel Sykes, there was no
such thing as a gross exaggeration.

Given the narcissistic, attention-seeking
nature of most serial killers, Sykes’ desire to keep himself in the
news made absolute sense, as did the timing of the book’s release.
If he had any inkling of the potential copycat, he would do
anything necessary to maintain his stranglehold on headlines that
would certainly be taken from him once the details of the crimes
became widespread.

There was also the matter of the copycat
himself. Much like Sykes, he would be driven, at least in part, by
the insatiable need to be noticed, feared, and admired. He would
feel a connection to Sykes, but there would also be a natural sense
of competition. And if Sykes’ book was seen by the copycat as an
attempt to up the ante, there was a good chance that he or she
would respond in kind.

Careful, Camille. You’re starting to sound
like a profiler again.

She smiled even though there was nothing
funny about the thought. She may have been operating on little more
than theory, but the connection between the copycat and Sykes’
alleged book was becoming frighteningly clear.

What wasn’t clear was the extent of Jacob
Deaver’s true interest in that book. The scavenging journalist
explanation was the easiest one to latch onto. In Camille’s
experience, however, the easiest explanation was rarely the correct
one.

There was something more. It wasn’t just his
words that told her that. It was the look in his eye; the quiet
desperation in his tone. The fact that he’d written down his hotel
room phone number prior to their meeting only confirmed what
Camille already knew: their encounter was not accidental. That
meant Jacob knew she was going to be at the City Perk. And the only
way he could have known that was if he had been following her.

It wouldn’t be the first time a reporter had
done such a thing. Most of them freely admitted to doing so. But
Jacob could not have been more adamant in his denial; just as he
had been adamant that his motives did not extend beyond a desire to
help Camille tell her story.

She couldn’t help but question that, but she
also couldn’t deny her curiosity to learn as much about this book
as possible. She began to wonder if she had been too quick to leave
the café. Even if the odds were ninety percent that Jacob’s story
added up to nothing, the remaining ten percent was too significant
to ignore.

As she looked up the telephone number of the
Brown Palace, Camille told herself that it was about the book and
nothing more. But in truth it was about a lot more. It was about a
gnawing instinct she couldn’t shake. It was about a debt to Agent
Crawley that remained unpaid. It was about a murderer whom she felt
increasingly compelled to stop.

There was no logical reason to believe that
Jacob Deaver could help her achieve any of those ends. But logic
was a crutch that she no longer had the luxury of relying on.

She had just picked up her phone to dial the
Brown Palace front desk when the cell lit up with an incoming
call.

Camille couldn’t help but roll her eyes when
she saw the word DAD flashing across the screen. This was the fifth
time he had called today, and the sixtieth since she’d moved out of
his house two weeks ago. Over-protective didn’t come close to
describing Paul Grisham, especially after the turn his daughter’s
life had taken in the past six months.

She ultimately couldn’t blame him. In fact,
part of her welcomed the security that his obsessively-watchful eye
brought with it. But the constant questions about the safety of her
apartment building, the concerns about adequate street lighting,
and the recurring offers to install deadbolts and motion detectors
were starting to wear thin. He hadn’t been this concerned when she
left for college sixteen years ago. Then again, she hadn’t been
shot and nearly killed less than three months before that move – as
had been the case now.

So as she had done with the previous
fifty-nine calls, Camille took a deep breath and smiled before she
picked up.

“Hey dad. What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

She shook her head at his terseness. “You
mean you haven’t implanted the GPS yet?”

“I’m being serious, Camille.”

“I’m home, and I’m perfectly safe,” she
sighed. “If you want me to check under the bed while I have you on
the line—”

“I need you to come over.”

“Why?”

“Someone is here to see you.”

She struggled to clear the sudden lump in
her throat. “Who?”

“It’s a bit much to try and explain over the
phone. Just drop whatever it is you’re doing and get over
here.”

Paul rarely barked orders, no matter how
badly he wanted something done. But when he did, Camille
listened.

“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

“Do you at least want to give me a hint of
what I’m walking in—”

The beep of a disconnecting call did not
allow her to finish the thought.

Camille wanted to take a moment to digest
what she had just heard, but there was nothing to digest aside from
the near-frantic pitch in her father’s voice that was completely
foreign to who he was. She could venture a guess as to what was
behind it, but these days speculation only led to dark places. So
she stood up from the desk, grabbed her car keys, and headed for
the door without giving the action a second thought.

Her Dodge Charger was parked only a few feet
from the apartment building’s entrance – a convenience that she
gladly paid an extra one hundred dollars a month to enjoy.

But what she saw as she walked outside had
instantly rendered it, and everything else around it, completely
invisible.

CHAPTER THREE

UPPING THE ANTE

“Before you say anything
Ms. Grisham, just know that I
was telling
the truth when I said I hadn’t followed you to the coffee
shop.”

The tweed jacket that Jacob Deaver wore in
the City Perk was missing, as was his messenger bag. But the smile
– as inappropriate as any that Camille had ever seen – was still on
bright display.

Camille’s shock quickly gave way to anger as
she briskly approached him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Jacob stood back on his heels. “I think we
can both acknowledge that our first conversation ended
prematurely.”

Prior to now Camille would have actually
agreed with that assessment. Her thoughts were very different now.
“Why are you here?”

He looked at her with the eyes of an
embarrassed adolescent. “Unfortunately I didn’t know any other way.
You left the coffee shop without taking my phone number and I knew
there was a lot more to be said – for both of us.”

“
And your response was to
follow me back to my apartment? Were you just going to lurk out
here like the creep that you obviously are? Or were you going to
wait until someone opened the door so you could slip
inside?”

The expression on Jacob’s face flattened.
“It’s not like that.”

Camille stopped a few feet away from him,
only now noticing how much shorter he was than her five-foot-nine
inches. The height advantage did nothing to mitigate the anxiety
that his presence inspired in her. “What is it like, Mr.
Deaver?”

“
If we’re going to work
together, I’ll have to insist you call me Jacob.”

Something that sounded like a laugh escaped
Camille’s throat. “Work together? I’m two seconds away from calling
the police on you.”

“
There’s no reason for
that. Besides, I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t touched
you, I haven’t threatened you…”

“
You showing up here isn’t
a threat?”

Jacob continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I
haven’t raised my voice in anger towards you. I simply want to have
a conversation. Since when is that grounds for filing a police
report?”

Camille paused to properly frame her
response. “Okay, Mr. Deaver. I am telling you right now, in as calm
a voice as possible, that I do not want to talk to you in any way,
shape, or form, and I am asking you to leave.”

Jacob looked around the otherwise empty
street. “This is a public place. I’m not really sure where I’m
supposed to go.”

Camille threw her hands up
in frustration. “Fine,
I’ll
leave.” She brushed against him as she walked
past, knocking him off balance. She had intended to do
more.

Jacob quickly gathered himself. “Are you
really going to let Sykes win again?”

Camille stopped.

“Because if you walk away from me, that’s
exactly what’s going to happen.”

“You don’t know the first goddamn thing
about Daniel Sykes. Or me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” It was in that
moment that Camille first noticed the change; the dark edge that
had suddenly settled in over Jacob’s face. “I know much more than
you think.”

Despite her body’s pleas, Camille remained
where she stood. Her stone-faced silence prompted Jacob to
continue.

“I meant everything I said
back in the coffee shop. I truly want to help you. People need to
hear your story. The full truth of it, not the spoon-fed nonsense
they’re getting from the media. At this point you probably don’t
think my intentions are anything beyond self-serving. I suppose in
some sense you’d be right. But there are others aside from myself
that I’m serving. And they have expectations that I can’t fail to
deliver on; expectations I
won’t
fail to deliver on. That’s why I’m here. Not
because of me. Not even so much because of you. But because of
them.”

“As far as I’m concerned, all of you can go
to hell. Because whatever it is you want from me isn’t going to
happen. That opportunity went right out the window the moment you
decided to follow me home. Now, if I were you, I wouldn’t press my
luck by staying here any longer.”

The smile that came across Jacob’s face did
little to brighten it. “Oh, that’s right. You were going to call
the police. I still think it’s silly and completely unnecessary,
but I guess that’s your prerogative. It’s funny that it would even
cross your mind though, considering the fact that they despise
you.”

Camille stiffened.

“This stuff you’re involved in with the
mayor’s husband has the entire department under scrutiny from what
I understand. Two homicide detectives shot. One killed. And a lot
of people are saying it’s because of you.”

“And I suppose these people failed to
mention that my best friend was murdered too.”

Jacob nodded. “I’m aware of that, and my
condolences go out to you and her family. I know the pain of that
kind of loss all-too-well. But you’ve also experienced your share,
which is why I figured you would be much more sympathetic to my
cause.”

“I don’t know anything about your cause. All
I know is that you’re trying to write a book and you need my help
to do it. Help you are not going to get.”

“My cause is much greater than a book.”

“In that case, I wish you double the luck
with it. Just make sure I don’t see you again.”

As if a switch had suddenly been turned on,
Camille felt her legs spring to life and she quickly made her way
to her car, once again brushing past him as she did.

Jacob walked up to the car as she climbed
inside and started it. He had just opened his mouth to speak when
he was interrupted by the roar of the engine. When she saw that he
was preparing to speak again, Camille put a heavy foot down on the
accelerator, filling the air with the sound of 100 crackling
decibels.

He spoke as she pulled away from the curb,
his words barely audible over the den of engine noise. But she was
able to read his lips, and though she had become something of an
expert at the art form during her academy training, she hoped that
the skill had failed her in this instance.

“Don’t worry, Camille. You
will,”
was what she had interpreted his
last words to be

CHAPTER FOUR

CLOSING THE DEAL

The red and white license
plate
of the Toyota Camry parked in her
father’s driveway indicated that the car was a rental. Her first
thought when she received the call was that Agent Crawley had made
a surprise trip in an effort to expedite her decision. She had
dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Now, as she stared at
the rental car, she couldn’t help but wonder.