I don’t understand why,” Jackson added. “Let’s see, got a phone number somewhere. Tried it earlier, but she didn’t answer. Let me get her file.”
He unlocked a black metal file cabinet that stood in one corner of his studio apartment, rustled around a moment, and pulled out a plain manila folder.
“Here,” he said, flipping it open. “Got a picture. Here’s her phone number.” He read it off. “No address. Some business papers. Nothing else important,” he concluded, closing the folder.
“We’ll need the file,” Ari said, sticking out her hand. “And your cell number in case we have questions.”
“No way.” Jackson stepped back, clutching the file. “These are personal business records.”
“Probably very interesting to the IRS if we have to subpoena them. And all the rest of your files. Of course, if you want to cooperate, be a good citizen, they wouldn’t have an occasion to see your files. Your choice.” Ari saw him waver. “Unless, of course, you have something to hide. What do you think, Andreas? Should we take him in on suspicion of murder?”
“Good idea.” Andreas stepped forward.
“Now hold on. Wait just one minute.” Jackson backed another step. “Haven’t said I won’t cooperate. This is on the up and up? She’s really dead?”
“If it’s not her, I’ll return your file,” Ari said, mentally crossing her fingers. Yeah, like hell she would. She’d never be back to see the “handler” again, not unless he turned out to be the killer. It wasn’t unheard of for a pimp to terminate one of his girls. In that case, she’d return with cuffs and guns.
Andreas held out an imperious hand. His force of will filled the room, daring Jackson to defy him. Jackson blinked. Without another word of protest, he scribbled his cell number on the cover and handed over the file.
Ari was on the phone with Ryan before Andreas’s silver Lexus left the curb. He’d left the Ferrari at home tonight. In this neighborhood it would have stood out like a rose among the weeds, demanding to be picked.
Ten minutes later Ari sat with the two men in the police conference room. She had sorted the contents of Vanessa’s file into three piles: personal data, client names, financial records. Spenser Jackson had been a meticulous record keeper. Every client, every payment was recorded by hand in bold printing. The room was quiet for the next twenty minutes, as they read every scrap of paper and exchanged the three stacks. When finished reading, they discussed all the possible angles. Vanessa had brought in good money, probably been Jackson’s top moneymaker. It made him an unlikely suspect. Of more interest was her clientele. Vanessa hadn’t been an ordinary hooker. A half-dozen of her repeat clients were names Ari recognized. Moneyed Riverdale residents. The type that might be threatened by a call girl willing to reveal their sexual liaison.
Ari picked up Vanessa’s photo for the third time. Sophisticated nut-brown eyes stared at her, framed by long shiny auburn hair. The vamp call girl had a knowing smile, as if she could see right inside your head and learn your secret thoughts or fantasies. It must have been an effective promotional photo for her line of work.
Ari no longer questioned the victim’s identity. The moment she saw the photograph, she knew. The barbs across the back of her shoulders, the momentary heaviness on her heart. It was a feeling she couldn’t explain to Ryan, but Andreas understood immediately. He had sensed it, too. That tiny hole in the magical universe.
Ari looked at the list of client names. Was one of them her killer, making this an unconnected murder, or simply the link in the existing pattern? Vanessa had sex with humans. The association was different—business transaction versus love relationship—but maybe that wasn’t important to the killer. Of course, there still could be a romantic attachment, a human lover, who could even be on this list.
If Ari could connect Vanessa with Shale’s agency, that would clinch the already established pattern. She vowed to dig into the agency’s files first thing in the morning. Maybe it was time to expand their scrutiny beyond staff and clients, to add sponsors, volunteers, or other community contacts with the agency.
Ari rubbed her temples. She was getting ahead of the evidence again. Instead of trying to make the profile work, she should consider the discrepancies. The manner of death, for example. A beheading was more vicious, more messy. Dormant community fears had been stirred by the recent murders. Maybe this was