Deadly Row, A - By Casey Mayes Page 0,89

something that appeared to be a set of other numbers that didn’t fit: C13, B12, D11.

But what did they mean? If they were a part of my grid, they wouldn’t match the vowel axis I’d penciled in.

They had to mean something, though.

I started to pick up the phone, and then I remembered the radio in my pocket.

“Hello?” I asked tentatively as I pushed the button. “Is anyone there?”

“Hello, Savannah. How may I be of service to you?”

I still couldn’t get over the fact that I had the hotel’s manager at my beck and call.

“Could you send someone up here with an almanac, a road atlas for the area, and a fact booklet on the city of Charlotte?”

“Of course.”

He signed off, and I wondered how long I would have to wait.

Four minutes later, there was a knock at my door.

“Yes?”

Garrett said, “I have the information you requested.”

As I opened the door, I said, “Wow, that was fast.”

“I was about to apologize for the delay. I had to retrieve a new copy of Charlotte’s Got A Lot.”

He handed me the stack of requested items. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, not that I can think of.”

“If you require anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks, Garrett.”

After he was gone, I started leafing through the reference materials, trying to come up with some explanation for the different set of numbers I’d found. The almanac had a great deal of information, but there wasn’t anything that struck a chord with me. I browsed through the map, but again, no bells. I got excited at first, but when D11 turned out to be Raleigh, I knew I was on the wrong track. These crimes were limited to the Charlotte area.

Then I picked up the Charlotte guide. As I leafed through it, searching for any number/letter combinations that might make sense, I kept drawing a blank. The magazine had a lot of useful information, but there was nothing that matched the new sequences.

I tossed the magazine aside, and it landed on the open road atlas. I picked it up again, and saw that the coordinates still didn’t match anything else.

And then I flipped the page.

On the next section, there was a grouping of smaller maps of several North Carolina cities, including Charlotte.

D11 had part of Sharon Road within its boundaries, the scene of one of the homicides.

My hands were shaking as I circled the other two locations.

One was the other crime scene.

I wasn’t sure what the significance of the last sequence was, but I had something to work with now.

I took out my puzzle grid. For the moment, I forgot about my vowel lines, and wrote the start of the alphabet below them, A, B, C, D, and E.

But I didn’t immediately go up the vertical axis. I started fiddling with the puzzle, and discovered that if I used the first digit for the vertical axis, I could use the second to fill in the number for that open block.

It worked like a charm, but I had one number left, one that didn’t match anything else.

19 squared.

I kept staring at it, wondering how it could fit into the puzzle to make things perfect.

And then I started counting, and realized that 19 squared could also be written as S X S.

Savannah Stone.

Was this a warning directed straight at me?

As I stared at it, I realized something else.

There was another player in this who shared my double S initials.

It might not be telling me the next victim at all.

The killer could have been signing his work, thinking that he was too clever for anyone ever to figure out what he’d been up to.

Steve Sanders.

I was reaching for the phone to call Zach when I glanced at the map again.

In a flash of insight, I realized the significance of the last set I hadn’t been able to place before. I stared at the map, and then I realized the importance of that sequence.

The last letter-number combination represented the grid that my hotel was in.

As I dialed my husband’s number, there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” I asked as I waited for my husband to answer.

“Housekeeping,” a muffled voice said from the other side of the door.

Without even thinking to check twice, I opened the door as my husband’s phone went to voice mail.

Steve Sanders was standing there instead of a maid, and he had a wicked-looking knife in his hand.

I’d been right figuring out the killer’s identity, but it wasn’t going to do me the least bit of good.

AS