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As if just waiting for a chance to dim the celebratory mood, the sullen slate-gray clouds produced a light drizzle five minutes after they left the restaurant. It kept pace with them as they walked the mile back to their rental. With a wry smile, Reese Decody raked a hand through her hair and shook out the drops. “Mother Nature with the buzzkill.”
“This?” Autry Quintin sent a dismissive little wave at the sky. “She turned on the fountain for you. Like that fancy water feature at the Bellagio in Vegas.” He aimed a light punch at her shoulder. “Know what they call a Livingston Award finalist that got rained on? A damp fucking Livingston Award finalist.”
His chronic ebullience could be annoying in the newsroom. Today, it burnished the glow from Reese’s editor’s earlier phone call. “I’m going to pin the highlighted finalist list to every social media account I have. Send it as a reply to the never-ending army of trolls Finley sends after me.” She figured the DOJ was archiving copies of those messages for the investigation they started into the California state representative after Reese’s series of articles last year. At least the constant stream of vitriol served some purpose.
“They’ll likely get worse after this. Gordon probably has tapped someone to write the story about your nominee status and redistribute your articles.” There was a wistful note in his voice as if he were sorry he hadn’t been at work to be considered for the assignment. He wouldn’t have been. Autry had joined theSan Diego Gazettetwo years ago, after a longer stint building his résumé with hard-hitting pieces for an online publication. He still needed experience. That’d been the reason Gordon Sparks, their editor, had given for sending him to meet her in Goodness, Mississippi, knowing full well that Reese preferred to work alone.
The kid needs seasoning. Let him tag along and watch your investigative process. He’sraw talent. Mentoring him will do you both good.
“The kid” was only a couple of years younger than Reese. And the last thing she wanted was someone taking an interest in her process.
“So, we discussed what tipped you to start digging into Finley. And I’ve read your stuff on the Trifecta Killer. I assume that’s why you’re watching the house next to our Airbnb. You think he’s holed up there?”
Reese slanted the man a look. He didn’t seem bothered by the sporadic mist, but then, he wore his hair in intricate scalp-hugging braids that wouldn’t cling to his face like a drenched bearded collie if the overhead clouds really opened up. Deliberately, she said, “I told you. A source tipped me off that Raiker Forensics is working with the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation.”
“They call his outfit the Mindhunters, right? A high-profile forensics entity with a world-class lab and specialty investigators. I spent some time reading up on them on the plane here. And that Raiker guy. He’s the GOAT forensic profiler that left the FBI after nearly getting killed catching a kid-killeryears ago. They got a bunch of employees, though. They’re probably working with lots of police across the country.”
“The TK last struck one month ago.” The killer had hopscotched down the eastern seaboard for the last two years, leaving a trail of bodies behind. After three gruesome murders in Florida, he’d headed west to Alabama. “His—or her—methods always include burning the victims afterward.”
“Laura Sisson drowned.”
“Only after first escaping from him,” she pointed out grimly. At least, that was the consensus of law enforcement, after discovering that three college professors had rented the Alabama lake house. Sisson’s body had been recovered. But the home had burned to the ground.
Good. Goodies. Goodness.
A frigid finger of ice traced across her nape. She didn’t know how she picked up those words from Stephen Thorne. Reese had long ago stopped entertaining those types of questions. Guilt was a living, breathing entity, no matter how deeply it was buried. And she was the unfortunate conduit it often spilled its secrets to.
But she couldn’t tell Autry that. She couldn’t share it with anyone. “Tupelo had that house fire two weeks ago, leaving a family of five dead. A burnt body was pulled out of the Mississippi River near Vicksburg the week before.”
“Forensic tests came back on both of those cases?”
Reese slid him a glance. Autry had the wide-eyed, aw-shucks manner down pat, but she’d read some of his work. He was a perceptive, tenacious reporter. It wouldn’t pay to forget that. “The autopsies didn’t show smoke inhalation in the lungs of the family members. I talked to a deputy coroner there. That’s how I got the name of the detective following up on the case.”
“And he, or she spoke to you?”
She parried that query as deftly as Tupelo PD Detective Hamilton had dodged those she’d put to him. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Sort of in the job description, isn’t it? I assume that’s the reason we’re keeping an eye on Stephen Thorne’s comings and goings in Bumfuck, Mississippi. Tupelo PD hauled the guy in for questioning?”
“They did.” Hamilton then released him because he must not have gotten ahumfrom him. But Reese had. She’d caught the bus Thorne boarded and sat next to the man, riding beside him until he disembarked fifteen minutes later. By then, she knew what he’d done. What he planned to do.
They’d never exchanged a word. They hadn’t had to.
A car passed with its wipers on intermittent. The precipitation had stopped momentarily, but the clouds overhead remained ominous. “Detective Hamilton thought Thorne might be a person of interest in the family fire, but he was dismissive about the homicide being linked to the TK. I started following Thorne. Saw who he talked to, then tried to speak with them myself. I dove into his background. Patti Wallace—Thorne’s mother—died four years ago. There was no father listed on his birth certificate. But I did track down Patti’s bestie. She gave me some background information on him.”
“Anything pertinent?”
“Just that he’d been sexually abused as a kid by his stepfather. Thorne killed him and burned the house down to hide what he’d done.”
“And all that triggered your famed instincts, and you knew to dig deeper.”
Although that’s exactly how she’d explained it at dinner, it sounded a little banal, even to her ears. “It’s what we do.”
He shook his head in chagrin. “Gordon gives you a wide latitude.”
Her editor’s indulgence was coming to an end. If she didn’t pick up a solid lead soon, they’d both be headed back to San Diego.