Page 5 of Headcase
“The former colleague—the one he accused of abducting and killing a dozen women? Well, he too disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”
Blake’s gaze shot to his and he sat up straighter in his chair. Yeah, now Zane had his attention. “Okay, I admit, that’s a little weird.”
Zane nodded, pointing to the redhead. “And this one, the doctor? Yeah, this is his husband. He’s a mechanic.”
Blake gazed at the picture of the dark-haired man, shrugging. “That’s it? Your big reveal is that the doctor married a blue-collar guy? Some people like a man who knows how to use their hands. Hell, if I could find a woman who knew a carburetor from a car battery, I’d probably marry her.”
Zane rolled his eyes. “That’s not the suspicious part. He owns that auto shop down the road. The one where there’s a dozen kids running in and out at all hours of the night.”
Blake shook his head. “So, what are you saying, man?”
Zane continued to toss the ball in the air. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Maybe the doc is a dope supplier and the kids are runners? Maybe it’s a chop shop.”
“Why would the son of a billionaire need to run drugs or chop cars? Hell, why would a doctor have to do that? I think you’re reading into shit. Your mom’s got you chasing ghosts, man.”
Zane shook his head. “Well, get this. The mechanic. His sister disappeared a decade ago, then turned up dead in the river, missing a kidney. No explanation given. Nobody even investigated.”
Blake frowned, staring hard at the picture of the man in question. “We live in a shitty neighborhood, man. People wind up in the river all the time. And not to put too fine a point on it, but she’s not white. We all know only rich white ladies get all the attention.”
Zane had thought of that. “Okay, but you don’t think it’s weird that three of Thomas Mulvaney’s sons ended up with men who lost somebody close to them under shady circumstances?” Zane asked.
Blake shook his head, threading his fingers behind his neck as he stared up at the board. “Not really, man. No. My Aunt Carol’s husband beat her to death with a toaster. Christabel, in accounting—somebody killed her cousin with a machete back in Haiti. Beach’s dad got shot and killed in a liquor store holdup. We live in a violent world. The only difference between us and Thomas Mulvaney is that nobody gives a fuck about our lives.”
“I’m telling you, there’s something suspicious about this fucking family.” Zane jumped to his feet. “See these red pins? Those are dead bodies found in the area over the last two years. Look at how many they found in or around Thomas Mulvaney’s properties?”
Blake smiled at him like he was hilarious. “The dude owns most of the city, bro. It would be harder to drop a body on a piece of property not owned by him.”
Zane shook his head, frustration burning through him. Blake was right, but there was something there. Zane’s gut was never wrong. “I need to keep digging. I need to get closer.”
Blake side-eyed him. “No, you need to stop playing Truman Capote and write the copy for the picture I took or you won’t be able to afford the rent on this hideous roach motel you call home. Do you want to ask Bev for money because you lost yet another job?”
Zane hadn’t lost jobs. He’d left jobs. Writing articles for tabloids wasn’t a job. It was a backup plan. If Zane wanted the world to take him seriously as a journalist, he needed to crack a huge story. A story so big even his mother couldn’t find a reason to negate his success.
“Don’t you want to be something more than just paparazzi?” Zane asked.
Blake scoffed. “I make a lot of money taking pics of celebrities. Enough to afford my camera equipment that lets me take the pictures I really want to take. The ones that will win me awards someday.”
Blake was a good guy. He was smart, talented, funny. But he didn’t have the instincts for this. “There’s something here. I know there is. Believing in an altruistic billionaire is like believing in the tooth fairy or Santa Claus. They don’t exist.”
“That’s a bit classist, no?” Blake asked.
Zane thrust his jaw forward. “Not if I’m right.”
Blake crumpled the wrapper of his sandwich. “Okay, let’s just say Thomas Mulvaney is the devil. He’s some—what?—high-ranking criminal mastermind. What are you going to do about it? You think you’ll live long enough to even write the article? Pretty sure he once had Obama on speed dial.”
Zane pointed to a grouping of red pins. “Yes. I need to write it. Because of them.”
Blake frowned. “Them?”
Zane nodded. “These men were all killed in a fire on one of Mulvaney’s properties.”
“And?” Blake said.
“And they were a congressman, a priest, a teacher, and a police officer. People with pull. People who had families who miss them.”
“That’s not a story. That’s the start of a bad joke. The story of those men has been told. They were pedophiles. Serial abusers. Nobody misses them. Not even their families. If it turned out Thomas Mulvaney killed them, the city would probably throw him a goddamn parade.”
Zane shook his head. “I just need to get closer.”
