“Let us enlighten you.” Patti grabs a bottle and takes a swig of beer, wipes her lips with the back of her hand. It’s so brazen that Elsie has to stifle a laugh. “This is Diane Howard Murray.” She taps one image. “You already know that, I sincerely hope.”
Bale lets out a hostile snort.
“Notice the logo on her apron, there. That’s the cleaning company she worked for when she wasn’t modeling.”
“That cleaning company is owned by Sean Wilson,” Elsie continues, placing her palm briefly on the other image. It’s a candid shot, taken on the street, of a man with thin hair to his shoulders, climbing out of a utility van—the van that Elsie saw parked around the corner from Cheryl Herrera’s vigil. “This is him. He employs over sixty people and cleans all around the local area.”
“Commercial work, mainly.” Patti takes over again. “Officebuildings, restaurants. But they also do college sports stadiums, athletics tracks, that sort of thing, cleaning up after game days and races.”
The men are trying their hardest not to look confused. It’s not working. Elsie can tell, with a flash of gratification, that she and Patti have them intrigued.
“Sean Wilson is often on-site for these events, overseeing his cleaning staff. Those events include race days at Central College’s athletics track, where Cheryl Herrera trained and competed.”
The men sit back in their seats. Bale raises his chin and scratches his neck.
Elsie bristles. They think it’s not enough, that it could be just a coincidence. But sheknowsit’s not a coincidence.
“He was at Cheryl’s vigil,” she urges. “I saw him. He was standing there, just watching.”
Greaves leans forward as if he’s about to ask a question, then appears to change his mind, picks up the Sean Wilson photo instead, studies it.
Over his shoulder, Elsie notices someone entering the bar—battered leather jacket, unkempt hair. A stab of recognition scythes in. It’s Robert Heston. That chancer must have followed her and Patti here from the office. She looks away. They can’t risk having him come over. He’d tell Hunter what she’s been digging into; she’d lose her job.
“What if he’d been watching Cheryl at these events for a while?” She needs to make her case quickly. “What if he specifically targeted her, just as he targeted Diane, a young girl—beautiful, promising? Surely this is at least enough to make an arrest?”
Bale takes a cocktail stick and begins picking his teeth. “It’s circumstantial.” He pulls the stick out, inspects it. “It’s not enough for an arrest.”
Elsie feels her shoulders sag. Across the bar, Heston is ordering a drink, scanning the room, eyes darting.
“But we’ll look into it,” Greaves reassures them, more evenly.
“My gut’s sayingcoincidence.” Bale twirls the stick in his fingers. “The MO is too different. The victims…” He tilts his head this way and that.
“If he killed Cheryl and Diane, he could have killed Emily Roswell, too.” Elsie needs them to see. It’s so clear that the cases are linked. Why won’t they see?
“All right, stop.” Bale fixes her eye, but she won’t be deterred.
“You’re failing women, you know, by not taking these links seriously.” She has no choice but to push it. “It’s the same guy.”
Bale’s whole demeanor changes then, as if a frost constricts the muscles in his shoulders. He leaps up, slams a palm on the table. “Wedecide if there’s a link. Us.” He looks crazed. “We don’t need some hack to tell us what to do.”
Elsie looks past him, terrified that the raised voice will draw attention. But Heston hasn’t noticed Bale’s outburst. Heston stands, leaves his untouched drink at the bar and crosses the room toward the pay phone, then picks up the receiver and pushes a coin into the slot.
“All right, Bale.” Greaves reaches across the table, attempts to pull his partner back down into his seat.
“If you ladies go any further with this line of inquiry,” Bale warns, “if you continue to interfere in an active police investigation, I will personally see to it that you never publish a single word again.” Spittle has collected in the corners of his mouth.
Elsie looks to Patti, unsure of how to proceed, but her face is motionless. She always remains so calm. Eventually she turns slightly, indicating to Elsie that it’s time for them to leave, and they both stand.
Bale watches them, his eyes charged, as they slide out of the booth. Elsie scans the bar as she moves. There’s no sign of Heston. His drink is still on the counter, full to the brim, and the exit door is slowly swinging shut.
“Hey,” Greaves calls out to them as they leave, and they both turn. “You want a story. Why aren’t you looking into Cornwell?”
Elsie’s brows knit together. “Cornwell?”
“Maybe you might want to take a look at this surveillance op he’s running.” Greaves holds her gaze.
“On the Kings?”
