Page 36 of The Drowned Woman
Reasoning through that one simple question somehow helped to calm her, the pressure in her chest giving way, although her pulse still throbbed in her temples. A few more deep, slow breaths and she was able to clear her vision and focus on the next task: going back.
Not inside, she promised herself. Just to the door. Lock it and leave. She could do that. Lock it and leave.
She focused on her feet as she retraced her steps until she faced the solid oak door once again. Despite her panic, part of her was desperate to escape inside, never leave the world where she could imagine Ian still alive. But she denied herself the luxury of escape. She couldn’t afford it—she had Emily to think of.
Ian would understand, she thought as her trembling fingers locked the door. She pressed her palm against the wood, making a silent promise:I will be back. You aren’t forgotten. Never forgotten.
As she walked back to her car, breathing still ragged, her phone rang. Risa.
“Leah?” Risa’s voice trembled. “There’s a new message.”
“What’s it say?”
Then Risa said, “It’s addressed to Detective Jericho.”
Twenty-One
Risa Saliba’s background check came up clean, and as Luka combed through her files, he couldn’t find any evidence to prove the existence of her stalker. Much less whether he’d killed anyone.
All of the people the stalker suggested that he’d killed shared some similarity to people Risa had interviewed, written feature stories about during her career as a journalist, or, more recently, had worked on their obituaries as a fact-checker. But the similarities were small: a shared name, shared date of death or manner of death—a clever internet researcher could easily have found these “doppelgängers,” as Luka thought of them, using them as examples of his killing prowess by claiming responsibility for their deaths.
Or an equally clever investigative reporter determined to reclaim her fame and fortune could be using them to create a fictious stalker.
Frustrated by his lack of progress, Luka decided to head over to the Falconer. Time to interview Risa himself, without interruptions from distraught boyfriends or distractions from her medical issues.
He parked in the lot beside the building, recognizing Leah’s Subaru as he jogged through the rain to the front door. Leah said she’d be talking to Risa about her medical issues. He wondered if Leah should stay during his interview—he could use her medical expertise to dissect Risa’s symptoms, see if they were genuine. If he caught Risa lying about those, it would be a short journey to discrediting her stalker “evidence” as well.
He pulled open the Falconer’s heavy glass front door, shutting the furious elements behind him. After texting Harper to come let him in—he didn’t want to alert Risa to his arrival, give her time to prepare by asking her to buzz him in from her apartment—he relished the silence of the space between the two sets of glass doors. Fingerprint dust still stained the keypad, although the brass door handles had been polished bright. The lobby was empty, the decorative sconces casting a ring of light around the space where Trudy’s body had lain.
What role did Trudy’s death play in all this? After all, she was his real case. Not this unlikely serial killer–stalker drama that Risa Saliba had engulfed him and Leah in. He remembered Leah’s naïve first instinct to believe Risa, that the killer stalking Risa may have killed Trudy. Far-fetched, for sure. But at this stage, with no concrete suspects, he had to keep an open mind.
Movement behind the reception desk caught his eye—Harper emerging from a door hidden by the tall potted palms, the same one the building manager had used this morning. She waved at him and crossed the lobby to open the door, her expression one of wide-eyed enthusiasm. “Perfect timing, boss. Wait until you see what I found.”
“Trudy’s cell or the stun gun?” he asked as he followed her back through the same door.
“No. Maybe better, though.” The door led to a short hallway. A doorway leading to the mailroom was on one side, a janitor’s closet on the other. And at the end was a door labeled:Manager. Here Harper hesitated. “Not sure how it ties into Trudy’s murder, but—look for yourself.”
With a flourish she flung the door open. The lights were on in what appeared to be a simple office: cheap desk with an outdated computer, file cabinets, whiteboard filled with maintenance items to be addressed. Beside it was an open door leading to a walk-in closet. Luka stepped inside.
And found himself surrounded by images of Risa Saliba. On one wall, a collage of candid photos caught from a variety of angles. The back wall held a collection of printed headshots from her various publications.
“Where’s Vogel?” he asked Harper.
“No idea. Left before I got here. His shift officially ends at four, so no one thought too much about it. But there’s a sleeping bag tucked under the desk and the address we have says he hasn’t lived there in months—”
“Put out a BOLO. Local and state.”
“Already done.”
Luka scrutinized the images on the first collage. A few showed Risa working in her living room and were taken from above. Hidden camera? Probably in the fire detectors—easy enough for the building manager to place under the guise of replacing the batteries. “Did you check the computer?”
“Nothing on this one, but I’ll bet his phone or home computer has a lot more than these. Who knows how many cameras he’s had on Saliba.” She backed out of the small space. “Big question is, what does this have to do with Trudy Orly? Did she catch him spying on Saliba and he killed her to silence her?”
“Someone has been sending Risa anonymous letters. Claiming to be a serial killer who wants her to tell his story.”
Harper’s eyes went wide at the implications. “Boss. Did we just let a serial killer escape?”
Luka’s phone rang, saving him from answering. Risa’s boyfriend, Jack O’Brien.
