Page 87 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”
“One of the great ones,” I said.
“… is. Now explain why… sound so wired.”
I went at it in layers, peeling from the least to the most disturbing. Speaking when the crackling and popping allowed.
I started with the coffee meeting that wasn’t.
“That’s it?… guy stood you up?”
“It’s out of character for Charlie. And why such urgency? Why did he have to see me today?”
“I’m sure you’ll hear from… oon.”
Next layer.
“I still haven’t spoken to Katy. I went to her house, as you suggested. It appears she hadn’t been there for days. I spoke to some folks at the shelter. It wasn’t encouraging.”
“… ing how?”
“The guy who was following her may be bad news.”
“Katy knows how to handle…”
“What if this prick grabbed her? What if she went running with no ID? What if—”
“… makes you feel better, call around to the hospitals… sure she’s fine.”
I said nothing.
“… you checked with your ex? Maybe he talked… her.”
“Pete’s in the Seychelles.”
Ryan’s response was nothing but static.
“I think Katy is suffering from PTSD,” I said.
“Which means she’s… enormous emotional turmoil. Flashing back to… you can’t understand… not be making fully rational decisions.”
“That’s why I’m worried.”
“She probably… time to herself.”
Final layer.
Deep breath.
“Some psycho is imitating my old cases.”
“What?” Sounding totally thrown. Or dubious. Or maybe he didn’t catch my words.
“Copycat corpses.” Keeping my sentences short to be understood.
“Are you serious?”
I laid it all out. Kwalwasser’s eyeball and skull with the knife-pierced orbit. Sanchez’s eviscerated torso. Boldonado’s death by garroting disguised as a suicide by hanging. The bucket of concrete. Not sure how much detail made it through the sporadic popping and sputtering.
