Page 75 of Killer on the First Page

She was fearless, but she wasn’t foolhardy. The photo with X’s signified imminent danger should she stay, so Miranda fled, running through the backstage area, fumbling for her phone. She was dialing 911 when Ned appeared. In person.

“I was just calling you!” she cried.

“Miranda, what have I told you about using 911 to arrange rides?”

“The janitor! X’s on faces. A photograph!”

“Complete sentences, Miranda, remember?”

As it turned out, Ned was coming to see the same man, and as Miranda described the photograph, his face turned thoughtful. She followed Ned back to the utility room, where the man in question was calmly waiting. The photograph was gone, however.

The janitor presented Ned with his ID.

“I’m just following up with everyone who was at the bookstore last night,” Ned explained. “I understand you left early, but I’d still like to take your prints, if you don’t mind, to avoid any misunderstandings.”

A shrug. “Sure, but you’re wasting your time. You won’t find any of my fingerprints on that arrow.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed. “Who said anything about an arrow?”

“Who hasn’t? Everyone is talking about it.”

The janitor rolled his fingers on the card like a pro. Like someone who has done it before. The entire time, he ignored Miranda’s fiery gaze.

Ned turned the man’s driver’s license over in his hand. “Cephus Kudarc-Vesztes? Am I saying that right?”

“No one does.”

“And what sort of name is that?”

“Southern. I’m from New Iberia. That’s in Louisiana.”

“Says here you’re from Bakersfield.”

“I mean, before.”

“Long way to come to work as a janitor, Cephus.”

“We prefer the termcustodian.”

“Who’s we?”

“Janitors.”

“Not too far to go for revenge, though, is it!?” Miranda yelled. “The photo with faces X-ed out. I recognized some of them. You hid it as soon as I left.”

“Where’s the photograph?” Ned asked.

The other man tried to brush it off with a standard-issue “She’s imagining things,” but Ned stared at him, hard, didn’t blink. Said exactly nothing.

A long silence passed between them, and Ned Buckley let the silence do its work for him.

“Fine.” Cephus retrieved the photograph from the table drawer, turned it over, and slid it across. “I know how it looks, but I was just keeping track, wondering which of the Idaho Seven would be next to die.”

“Idaho Seven, you say?” Ned studied the photo carefully. “And there you are, Cephus. The one with the handlebar mustache.”

“That’s how you slipped into the reception unnoticed!” said Miranda. “They would have known you with a mustache.Where do you get your ideas from?That was the question you threw at Ray Valentine. You were twisting the blade. Why?”

Cephus the Custodian said nothing.