After a moment, the hope evaporates from his eyes, and he slumps on the bench at the foot of my bed. I can’t help but feel a twinge of pity.
“Look, we are not out of luck here,” I say. “We know exactly where she’ll be next week, and we’ll be able to tell her everything. Until then, by all means, call all the numbers you want. But we need to be ready for whatever else happens.” I get up and walk Grant to the door. He’s markedly less energetic than he was when he walked in. “For you, that means being on your story-predicting A game. And for me, right now, that means at least two more hours of sleep.”
• • •
LESLEY’S STUDY ISwarm and cozy in that quintessentially English way that makes me wish I were a mystery novelist or an old-timey reporter clacking away on a typewriter. It’s all dark wood and emerald-green walls, a fire crackling in the hearth, perfectly mismatched armchairs. And, of course, shelf after shelf of books. It’s a comfy, literary dream. Probably Grant’s idea of heaven.
Although looking at him now, maybe it’s more like his personal hell. He’s hunched on the couch, staring at the coffee table as if it killed his entire family.
I focus on the assorted baked goods laid out on the console table. Lissa’s been in and out with tea and coffee and trays of breakfast foods. All things considered, it could be a lot worse.
“Croissant?” I hold one up to Grant in offering. He doesn’t look at me and gives just the barest shake of his head. “Scone? Fruit cup? Charcoal from the fireplace?” He looks up, brows knit, and I shrug. “You’re so clenchy. I figured we might as well get a diamond out of the deal.”
“Forgive me for being clenchy. I’m a little stressed.”
“Why?” I ask innocently, just to watch his face warp with incredulity.
The mahogany doors bang open, and in saunters Lesley, arms wide. He takes a few steps into the room and stops, holding his pose.
“Yoo-hoo,” he declares. I know instinctively that this is a man who has announced himself at social events by proclaiming,The party has arrived.
I take my seat beside Grant while Lesley moseys to the armchair opposite us, and Lissa bustles in soon after. She hands Lesley a cup of tea and two pills.
“Bit of breakfast to wash it down?”
Lesley looks dubiously toward the spread. “No, no, I’m not very—”
“I didn’t make it,” she says. “It’s from Murphy’s.”
“A muffin, please and thank you.”
She snorts as she assembles a plate. “He hates my cooking.”
“I do not!”
“Andhe’s a terrible liar,” she says. Lesley throws up his hands in defeat, and she mimes throwing a muffin at his head.
“Right,” Lesley says, clapping his hands together. “Now that we’re all here, we might as well jump in.”
He recaps our mission, giving an overview of what we can expect over the coming weeks. The great news, according to Lesley and Lissa, is that Mr. Page only tags members who’ve posted in the group before. That means as new murders get announced, we’ll be able to deduce not only where and when they’ll take place but also the very likelyhow.
“For instance,” says Lesley, “let’s say Mr. Page calls on a Mr. Joe Murderington. Joe’s response points to next Friday at a corner pub in Islington. If we look back through the archives, we’ll see that all of his previous posts indicate a string of poisoningmurders targeting businessmen in pubs. Bam. Next Friday, the Pint-Poisoning Punk strikes again.”
“Serial killers tend to have a type,” says Lissa. “Some sort of agenda, driving them to kill certain people. Maybe Joe was an office loner whose colleagues never invited him to after-work drinks, for instance. If we can work out a killer’s typical target, you can act the part and put yourselves in the crosshairs.”
“So,” Lesley says, standing from his chair, “enough with hypotheticals. On to the real deal. Tomorrow is mission number one: Noon, right by Leicester Square. A bloke posting under the name Vincent Skaggs. Now, what do we know about Mr. Skaggs?” He grins, hands spread in a suspense-buildingwait for itgesture, then announces, “He’s a pedicab driver.”
The words hang in the air as he looks between me and Grant, his smile fading. “That’s it. That’s all we know.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Grant mutters.
“There’s not much to go on,” says Lissa. “We can link him to two missing person cases—both blond tourists, both last seen getting into a pedicab. But everyone hates tourists, so it’s not like he’s got a unique motive to narrow things down. Otherwise, there don’t seem to be any identifying clues—unless the police have any leads, but that’s beyond our scope.”
“Wait a minute,” says Grant, sitting forward. “Why aren’t you working with the police? Couldn’t you just show them all of this, the Facebook group and everything, and let them take it from there?”
Lesley stiffens, crossing his arms. “And where would be the fun in that?”
“Fun?” Grant asks incredulously. “People are dying.”
