first. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to go over well, and he wanted the shitstorm that he knew was going to erupt to hit him, not his old partner. He was retired, it didn’t matter. Reznor still had a career to worry about.
“Two of the murders, Dragger in Chicago and Nahler in San Francisco, match other victims in other suspected serial killer cases, albeit in different parts of the country.”
This was where he had to make a leap, and he knew Whidby wasn’t going to come along for the ride. “The other four murders, Judge Lyons, Dr. Mueller, the author Victoria Pugh and the journalist Tomlinson, all were involved in violent crime.”
Whidby rolled his eyes.
Mack plowed on. “Tomlinson wrote a series of exposés on cold cases that resulted in the arrests of two serial killers. Victoria Pugh’s books involve serial killers and homicide detectives. Judge Lyons presided over three mass murder cases. Dr. Mueller’s testimony helped put away dozens of murderers.”
Whidby looked at Reznor. “Please tell him to get to the point, I will not be late for a meeting with the Director.”
Mack’s temper got the better of him. “What I’m saying, jackass, is that someone is recruiting active serial killers and giving them targets. It’s like a game or a competition or something.”
Whidby threw his head back and roared with laughter.
“You’re a fucking lunatic Mack!” he said. “Are you sure you’re not the one with brain damage?”
Mack lunged across the table, but Whidby had pushed himself away from the table. Reznor was between them.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” Mack said, his teeth clenched. He could take all the insults in the world, but Janice was off-limits.
Reznor pushed him back into his chair, and Whidby rolled back to the table, a smirk on his face. Reznor stood between them.
“I hate to interrupt this Love Fest, but I have a piece of information that neither one of you are going to like.”
Mack looked up at her.
“This is going to change everything,” she said.
63.
Nicole
Ever since her attack, and her recovery from it, Nicole had not necessarily avoided news of crime, but she hadn’t sought it out, either.
When she logged onto her computer, her home page appeared. It was the website of the Los Angeles Times. Nicole normally scanned the headlines before clicking to the Living section, then the Food section where her favorite column The Daily Dish appeared.
But the headline on the front page stopped her. It was about the murder of Andrew Venuta, a young actor. She wasn’t sure why she stopped, maybe it was something about the man’s handsome young face, or that she saw it occurred in Santa Monica.
She read the story and confirmed that yes, Venuta had been killed at a home less than a mile away from Nicole’s house.
Nicole experienced a wave of nausea followed by a slight uneasiness in her stomach. Was it fear? Anger? A combination of the two?
Or maybe it was the sheer savagery and boldness of the crime. Andrew Venuta had been strangled and perhaps sexually assaulted at a crowded house party. How had it happened? Nicole looked again at his picture. She couldn’t tell, but he looked like a well-built young man. Had he been overpowered? Or drugged?
She thought again about how grateful she was that she had found the courage, and the opportunity, to fight back against her attacker.
Nicole realized that for a few slight errors in Jeffrey Kostner’s planning, she too would have been another news story of a murder victim.
She closed the laptop.
The cops had better find the man responsible for the killing. There were witnesses who said Venuta had last been seen with a man described as thin and long-haired but no one had a name.
Nicole hoped for the family of Andrew Venuta that the cops had someone like Wallace Mack on the case. Someone who would chase down every lead and not rest until the killer was caught.
Nicole let Sal back in the house from the backyard. Then grabbed her keys and purse. It was time to head to Thicque, and push away all thoughts of murder. She had spent more than enough time in her life contemplating violent crime.
That part of her life, thank God, was over.
64.
Robertson State Prison
Leonard Goldberg sat in his prison bed, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. He’d been that way for the best part of nine solid hours. He hadn’t slept a single minute.
He got up and brushed his teeth for the third time, sat at the makeshift desk in