Page 17
Ella couldn’t argue. Despite the tangent, Sarah Webb had a point. Just a couple of months ago when Ella had caught the Laughing Stock killer, the details had made YouTube before it hit the New York Times.
‘What’s your point?’ Mia asked, clearly still having not warmed up to this woman.
‘That I’m not a journalist anymore. I’m just an amateur investigator. I live off my books.’
‘Okay, fine. Tell us about this group,’ Ella said.
‘There are only six of us, but we help each other out. We share theories, use each other’s resources, that kind of thing.’
‘What’s the name of this group?’
‘The White Whale Club.’
Ripley laughed. ‘White whales, huh? And yours is the ‘98 Beach Burials, I assume.’
‘Correct. Frank’s was Jennifer Marlowe. Diana’s is the Ferryman. All the cases we work on are in Florida too.’
‘The Ferryman,’ Ella repeated. ‘I know that one.’
She accessed the grim file stored away in her memory.
The Ferryman was an uncaught serial killer from Jacksonville.
In 2001, he’d decapitated three women in their homes.
All of the bodies were discovered floating in the ponds or swimming pools in their gardens.
Their heads were never found. The only concrete connection the police ever made was one morbid staging detail; each victim had some kind of water feature in their backyard.
‘Yes. Diana worked the case when it happened.’
‘Right. And Frank was a card-carrying member of this White Whales Group?’
‘Yes he was.’
Ella felt the case shift beneath her feet. Amateurs playing detective. The thought should have irritated her more than it did. But the FBI wouldn’t exist without civilian tip lines, without people who noticed what professionals missed.
Still, a group dedicated to cold cases meant a concentrated pool of individuals who knew about Jennifer Marlowe, about white stones, about Frank’s obsession.
The suspect and victim lists had just expanded and contracted simultaneously.
Six people with intimate knowledge of the case that had haunted Frank Sullivan for half a century.
Six people with access to crime scene photos, to witness statements, to the signature detail that had shown up in Frank’s own murder.
‘Frank spoke about the Marlowe case freely to this group?’
‘Very much so. But I don’t think he wanted help solving it.’
‘No?’
‘No. Frank just wanted to talk about it. He understood better than anyone that it was unsolvable.’
Ella watched Webb’s hands as they twisted together. Nails trimmed. Writer’s callus on the middle finger of her right hand. People still wrote longhand, apparently. No wedding ring.
‘We need names of everyone in your group.’
Sarah’s face clouded. ‘I wish I could give you complete information, but I’m new to the group. Only joined about eight months ago.’
‘But you must know their names,’ Ripley pressed.
‘First names, sure. Diana, Jeremy, Gus, Michael, Tracy, Elliott. But beyond that...’ She shrugged. ‘We meet at Diana’s house, and most of our communication happens through an app. Privacy is kind of the point.’
‘You’re in a cold case investigation group but you don’t know who you’re investigating with?’
‘It’s not that unusual. Some members are former law enforcement who don’t want their names associated with unofficial investigations. Others are just private people.’
‘We need full names, addresses, contact information,’ Ella said. ‘All of it.’
Sarah twisted in her seat and reached for the backseat. Ripley flattened herself against the door as Webb’s arm shot past her. The journalist rummaged blindly through a bag wedged behind the driver’s seat.
‘Diana Jewell would have all that. She’s the founder.’
Ella asked, ‘What can you tell us about her?’
‘Sorry,’ Sarah muttered to Ripley, who was still pressed against the window.
Sarah then extracted a leather-bound notebook, copied something down off her cell and tore the page out.
She folded it up and handed it to Ella. ‘That’s Diana’s cell and address.
She’ll have the full roster, but I really don’t think anyone in our group is capable of this. ’
‘We’ll be the judge of that,’ Ripley said.
Sarah turned and spoke to Ripley face-to-face for the first time. ‘Something tells me you don’t like me, agent. Am I a suspect or something?’
‘Maybe. And no, I don’t like authors or journalists. You happen to be both.’
‘I’m not a journalist anymore, and I’m sorry that we authors aren’t good enough for you.’
‘It’s not authors, it’s true crime authors. Want to make a difference? Become a cop. Anyone can be a detective from behind a keyboard. All you do is make things harder for the actual detectives.’
Ella sensed an escalation on the horizon, and if things got physical, Ella didn’t fancy Sarah’s chances. Ripley might be a grandma, but she still had one of the best right hooks in the business.
‘Mia, come on-’
‘It’s fine,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘Your partner’s right. Cops are the real heroes. I couldn’t do what you do, happy? I’m not strong enough, so I do this instead.’
‘Well, you’re not helping anyone.’ Ripley pushed the car door open and flung one foot out into the rain.
‘Those beach burials in ‘98? I was on the task force. I had to look a 10-year-old in the eye and tell him some sick asshole had drowned his dad. He asked me why, and I said I didn’t know. I doubt that kid ever recovered, and trust me, if you heard that poor boy crying, you wouldn’t be trying to profit from this crap. ’
Ripley exited hastily, slammed the car door shut. There was a moment of silence, and the look on Sarah’s face suggested Ripley might have intimidated her into a career change. Sarah clutched the wheel and watched the rain again.
‘Sorry about her,’ Ella said. ‘Frank was her mentor at the Bureau. This case has hit her hard.’
‘She was talking about Nathan Taylor, wasn’t she?’
‘Who’s Nathan Taylor?’
Sarah smiled. The first one of the night, it seemed. ‘I respect what your partner does for a living. She’s right. I couldn’t do it.’
Ella sensed there was a swerve on the horizon. ‘But?’
The author pulled out her cell phone again. ‘But she should get all the information before she opens her mouth.’
‘Yeah. That’s Ripley for you.’ Ella unlocked the car door. A gust of evening wind nearly took it off its hinges. ‘Thank you for your help. We’ll go and speak to Diana Jewell.’
‘Do. If you need me. My cell is on there too.’
Ella stepped into the Florida downpour and the rain instantly plastered her hair to her scalp. She spotted Ripley sheltering beneath the venue’s awning. It was getting late, but investigation didn’t wait.
Webb’s group might just be their roadmap to whoever had put stones where Frank’s eyes should be. Or it might lead them straight to the killer himself.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17 (Reading here)
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49