“Yep.” He nodded and managed to mold his lips into a frown. “It’s sad.”
“You know who did it,” she accused.
Roy held up both hands, palms out. “I do not. But”—giving a shrug—“I can’t help appreciating the sentiment.”
“Someone left a message?”
He leaned closer. “Yes.” His eyes glinted with a deliciously evil light. “They wrote:Man-whore. Along the driver’s side. Scratched all the way through the paint.”
“Oh, dear God.” Fink loved his car. Drove it around town with the top down in all weather.
“If you ask me, it’s his wife. You know they’re split, right? D-I-V-OR-C-E. Gasp!” he said theatrically.
She had heard.
“Or maybe it was Celeste. She’s been waiting for years, and he’s just strung her along. So maybe she’s had it,” Roy mused. “Who would blame her, and even if he is getting a divorce, she might have decided enough is enough.”
“And vandalized his car.”
“You know what they say about hell’s fury and a woman scorned. So … just a reminder: Fink’s on the war path.”
“Not PC,” she said, as Roy straightened.
“I know. I’m not. Gotta run. Forewarned is forearmed. Right? But just be careful. Who knows what Fink will do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, Nikki, you know he’s had it in for you for years.”
“You think he would fire me? He can’t. I’m freelance.”
“I know. He’s just really ticked off.” He smothered a smile. “Which I happen to love. Later!” With a wave, he was off, wending through the cubicles and out the front door. Nikki glanced over at Fink’s glassed-in office where, through the half-opened blinds, he was fuming at his desk. As if he felt her gaze on him, he glanced away from one of his computer monitors and caught her eye. And then he kicked back his chair and was through the door, marching towardher desk. Was Roy right? Would Fink send her packing? She felt herself bristle.Let’s just see.
“You have a new article?” he asked. “Something on the serial-killer cases?”
He knew she didn’t. She’d called him from the road before landing here and had explained that she was “working on” a story. That wasn’t really a lie. Not really. “I don’t think the Huber and Greenlee cases have been labeled as serial killer.”
“Oh, come on. They’re too damned similar not to be linked. Don’t the police have some connection between the victims? Haven’t they come up with a profile on the psycho who committed the crimes? Isn’t there some piece of evidence that was at both crime scenes or a calling card or something?”
She furrowed her brow and spoke the half lie convincingly, she hoped. “Not that I know of.”
“Yeah, right,” he spat, disbelieving. Then his eyes narrowed. “You know, Gillette, you used to be a good reporter.”
“Used to …”
“Right. You’d do anything for a story. But you’ve gotten soft. I can see it. You’re not the all-balls-out reporter you used to be. Ever since you had that kid, you haven’t had the same dedication, that edge that made you stand out.”
“Gee, I didn’t think you noticed.” She was holding on to her temper with an effort.
“Well, it’s gone now. And before you argue with me, remember my back is up against the wall, just trying to keep this paper going. I don’t need excuses. I don’t need platitudes, and I certainly don’t need fluff pieces. What I need from you is the same hard-edged reporting that you did when you made a name for yourself. You know what I’m talking about, so come up with something good. No. Strike that. Come up with something deep, perceptive, and honed to a razor’s edge. Something great, in fact. You covered some of the most bloody and bizarre homicides in this part of Georgia. And now? Another one is dropped at your feet, and you’re married to the lead investigator, and so far you haven’t come up with jack shit!
“And if I don’t come up with something you think is ‘deep, perceptive, and honed to a razor’s edge’?”
“Then I guess we’ll be calling you a has-been.”
“Wow.”
“Exactly.” With his jaw rock-hard and his lips thin as that razor he’d been talking about, he stalked back to his office.
