night before, the things he’d learned about Liza, the information she’d thrown at him. And that was exactly what she’d done—lobbed horrifying personal details, expecting him to duck and run.
Part of him questioned whether he should. He didn’t know her, not really. Sure, he felt a pull toward Liza that went beyond the physical. But that might be explained away by the job he’d chosen, and the reasons why. She hadn’t been wrong when she’d said it was important to him to be noble, to protect, to rescue, to be a force of good in the world in whatever ways he could.
He needed to be careful, though. Not just in guarding his own heart, but in the effort to do what was best for her as well. Perhaps the last thing she needed was the pressure of him pursuing more from her than she was ready or willing to give.
Or maybe it was exactly what she needed. Maybe he needed to be bold enough to take the lead, because Liza never would.
Fuck.
He could understand her resentment at him for looking up her story. She’d tried to manage it herself. Tried to dole out the least information she could while still being truthful. She wanted to be in charge of what he learned and what he didn’t. And how could he blame her for that? Not only was it her information to offer, but she didn’t need to be comfortable telling anyone what she’d gone through. She owed him nothing and was embarrassed that he knew her most private horror anyway.
Reed scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d have to think about all that later. He had a job to do. And new evidence that could help them figure out their next move. Victims that deserved justice, and people, yet unknown to Reed, who might very well be in danger right that moment. Just as the thought crossed his mind, the door opened and Sergeant Valenti and Detective Pagett walked in, coffee cups in their hands as they greeted Reed and took a seat.
Ransom caught the door before it’d closed and entered as well, a Wendy’s coffee cup in his hand, taking the seat next to Reed.
In light of everything that had happened in the past couple of days, they’d moved to a bigger room where they could display the information and evidence they’d obtained so far, and also keep a rolling whiteboard of pertinent media information.
Reed first updated the team about their visit to Micah that morning and what had been found on Steven Sadowski’s computer.
“No way,” Jennifer said. “What a dirtbag.”
“No argument here,” Reed said.
“Think the whole peeping Tom,” Jennifer said, making air quotes, “deal has anything to do with the fact that the dude lost the eyeballs he did the peeping with?”
Reed shrugged. “Some sicko’s idea of poetic justice? Anything’s possible. And if he was the only victim, I might say, likely. But it’s just not clear how the others fit in.”
“This is good,” Sergeant Valenti said, tossing a file folder on the desk. “Because it’s not the only piece of new information. We have the name of the victim found yesterday in the parking garage.”
Reed sat up straight. “That came in last night?” he asked Jennifer, knowing she was the only one in the room who’d been on duty after the rest of them left the night before.
“Yeah,” Jennifer said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I’ve been out this morning interviewing witnesses. I didn’t know you’d be up so early. I figured I’d let you boys get your beauty sleep and update you when you came in. I’m beautiful enough as it is.”
Reed smiled. “Thanks for that. Fill us in.”
Jennifer walked to the front of the room where Steven Sadowski’s and Toby Resnick’s photos were hung, along with the information they had on each man. She drew a line, making a column for the victim they’d found in the parking garage the day before, and then removed a photo from the file she’d brought with her, taping it at the top. Three sets of sightless eyes stared into the room of CPD detectives who were attempting to bring them justice. On the board next to the one where Jennifer had just hung the photo, a picture of Margo Whiting, the prostitute with the same brand as the other three men, but who’d died from a fall, hung by itself, separated because of the difference in MO.
“Clifford Schlomer,” Jennifer said as she wrote the name under the