“Did Mom ever sing, in a choir, at a church?”
“Whatisthis, Angie?”
She reached for the album, opened it, and took out the photos from Italy. She turned them over, showing her dad the tiny scrawl of her mother’s hand on the backs.
“Look—it says,Rome. Jan. 1984. Then this one from Naples, which also says 1984. However, in this photo, taken in front of the Christmas tree, my mouth still needing the second surgery, it says,Christmas 1987. Victoria.” She looked up. “There’s missing time between the Italy pics and that Christmas. That Christmas photo was shot in 1986, wasn’t it?”
“Like I said, your mother probably just made a mistake—the early signs of confusion—”
“Did anyone we know speak Polish to me when I was young?”
He frowned. “That’s a strange question ... I don’t think so. But there could have been someone. Angie, please, tell me what this is all about?”
She replaced the photos. None of the others in the album had any dates on the backs. She’d dismantled the whole album last night. And she did not want to inform her dad that she was hallucinating, seeing a little girl in pink—no one was going to know that. Even just vocalizing it would put it out there into the air, make tangible and real the possibility that she was showing the same symptoms as her mother, genetically predisposed. She was searching for an easier answer, a way to explain it away. “I was just wondering, after what Mom said in that hospital. I always feel so awful around Christmas, around the sound of hymns and carols, the cold. Snow. Just ... wondering.”
His features softened, and he placed his big hand over hers. “You dig too much, Ange, your job, always looking to find something bad. You should take a rest, and yeah,especiallyafter what happened in July, with that toddler and Hashowsky.”
She got up, leaving the rest of her coffee. “Yeah, maybe. I should go. Long day ahead.”
Driving to the station, Angie checked the time on the dash—it was just past the top of the hour—and she clicked on the radio to catch what was left of the news.
As she listened, a segment on real estate prices was cut short. “We have late-breaking developments in the story on the two gruesome murders that have rocked Victoria—” Her heart quickened. She reached over and turned up the sound. “City Sunreporter and crime blogger Merry Winston is reporting on her website that the recent sex killings are linked to several religious-oriented and violent sexual assaults over the last five years. She claims that there have been at least three, possibly more, local incidents where victims were raped and sodomized before crucifixes were drawn in red ink on their foreheads. Locks of hair were cut from all the victims from the same location on their heads. We’ll have more on the story as it develops through the day. And following the news, Granger Paton will be talking with professor of criminology Dave Biggs, who asks: Do we have on our hands a local serial rapist who has now escalated to serial killing? And are other young women in danger?”
Shit!
She quickly pulled over onto the verge and scrubbed her hands hard over her face.Shit shit shit.She reached for her phone, dialed her partner.
“Maddocks, you heard the news?”
“Not yet. I—”
“Winston is apparently reporting on her blog that the Hocking and Drummond homicides are linked to earlier rapes. She’s mentioned the red Sharpie crucifixes and the locks of hair. How the fuck does this stuff get out? From a closed task force? And she claims that there were three, maybe more, sexual assaults, and she’s dating them backfiveyears—Hash and I only had two. The first we knew of was four years back. Who in the hell were the others? Is this even for real?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “I’m going to see her myself.”
“No, wait, Pallorino! Don’t do it. Brass is dealing directly with theCity Sunpublishers. They’re getting legal involved. Don’t undercut—”
“This is not theSun.It’s Winston on her personal crime blog.”
“That’s just a back door for theSun.They know full well what their crime reporter is doing.”
Something struck her suddenly. “How do you know that brass is speaking with the publisher and bringing in legal?”
A beat of silence. “Fitzsimmons told me.”
“Fitz? You’re in bed with Fitz now? When did he tell you?”
“We met over another issue. It came up.”
“Another issue? You mean the internal investigation into the leak?”
“Angie—”
“It’s Pallorino. And I’m going to talk to Winston. They’re going to look at me for this leak anyway. Leo’s already angling for it, and you know he is. If therearemore incidents that this woman knows about, I want to know about them, too.”
“Don’t. That’s an order.”
She hung up and shoved her vehicle into drive.
CHAPTER 34
