“You know…what?”
“I’m a reporter. It’s my job to uncover information, and you intrigued me from the start.”
Elsie feels certain that she is blushing. “You know who I am?”
“I don’t know whoyouare, not yet—I’ve only just met you—but I do know what your husband did, yes.”
Elsie lets out a bark of disbelief. “You’re not going to—”
“I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“I’d lose my job.”
Patti frowns. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Credit?”
“You’re a strong woman.”
“Okay.”
“You’re certainly the most interesting person in this building. Hell, you’re the most interesting person in the state, probably. What you’ve lived through, what you’ve experienced, what you do here, every day…
“I just make coffee.”
“Oh, quit it, Elsie. I see you. I know you know you’re more important than that. You’re just diminishing yourself because you think people won’t accept your brilliance because of what happened to you.”
She feels suddenly as if her skin has been exposed, as if Patti has peeled back her clothing and is studying every blemish, every fold.
“So, you wanna find this shithead or not?” Patti smiles.
Elsie falters. Is she really going to do this? Let someone else see her for what she is, widen her world beyond Beverley and Margot? Is she prepared to make herself vulnerable like that?
She swallows. “I want to find this shithead.”
Twenty
It’s a brightAugust Thursday when Bob Taggit, a plumber from Ventura, pulls his truck into the Safeway parking lot to pick up supplies for his daughter’s birthday party. He steps out of the driver’s seat into the smothering midday fug and locks the truck, scanning the trailer to check that all his equipment is secured.
Inside the store, the air-conditioning is blasting bitter air. Dusty Springfield is playing on the speakers—“You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me,” his wife’s favorite. He takes a cart and browses the aisles, whistling along to the tune, picking up balloons, cake, candy and a six-pack of Budweiser for himself. From the deli down the street he’ll get some meat for the grill. James Finnegan always complains that the steak’s too tough, but he’s just gloating; he thinks he can grill better than anyone else. Bob will ask the deli guy for an especially tender cut.
He dawdles for a while in the magazine aisle, making a show of picking upMan’s LifeandBlue Bookbefore grabbingPlayboyand flicking to the centerfold. He blows out air from the side of his mouth.
Back out in the lot, the heat has solidified. The sun javelins off thewindshields of vehicles lined up as neatly as toys in a box. The air smells of oil, dust and the fumes from the interstate just a couple hundred yards away.
Taggit returns to his truck and hauls the shopping bags into the back, moving tools aside—wrenches, ropes and hammers, newly cleaned. He pulls a sheet of tarpaulin over them to stop the cake from melting, then returns to the driver’s-side door, unlocks it and slides into his seat. He fastens his seat belt, shoves the key into the ignition and then pauses. Something has been tucked beneath one of the wiper blades.Bastards.It’s some crappy car wash pamphlet, no doubt. He huffs, unbuckles his seat belt, opens the door and steps out to grab it. Without a glance, he crumples it in his fist, but the material is harder than paper; it resists.
He looks down and realizes it’s the back of a cereal box—Lucky Charms. Then he notices the scrawled handwriting. He squints, leans back into the car to retrieve his glasses. As he slides them on, the words swim into focus.
To the police and to the newspapers,
Be quicker.
I WILL kill again.
Why can’t you guys see the big picture? Why aren’t you covering my crimes more? If you do not print an article about me in the next week, you’ll regret it.
Cheryl Herrera—Almost didn’t get her.
