Peter shrugged. “He’s not that bad. Just a little rigid. I might be, too, if I was a boss.”
“Oh, my God. You look like you’re in physical pain trying to say something nice about the man.”
“Fine, he’s a fuckstick.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to say that about a guy with a tumor.”
“I told you, I think Justine’s just screwing with my mind, trying to force me to be nice to him.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she said. “You know what they say: People live longer, we’ve got crummy lifestyles, the environment’s going to hell. Cancer rates are up, my friend. We’re pretty much all dying as we speak.”
“Jesus, you’re depressing. I’m telling you-Kittrie’s fine, in that respect, at least. Just call him, okay? He’s a tool, but he definitely would’ve had a line in to a guy like McIlroy.” Peter pulled out his own business card and scribbled George Kittrie’s name and number on it. He extended it toward Ellie, then pulled it back. “I don’t need to be jealous now, do I?”
“Oh, definitely. Because, as you know from my own history, I have such a weakness for overbearing, micromanaging bosses.”
He handed her the number. “If McIlroy had a story to plant, it would have been with him.”
“Okay, now I have a single remaining demand of you this evening.”
“Ooh, a demand? Daddy likey.”
“Okay, two demands. One, don’t ever say that again. And two, don’t let me talk about work anymore.”
“But, Detective, what in the world would you talk about if not work, when that’s all you ever do?”
“Fine, I can talk about normal-people work stuff-my partner, my boss, the heroin addict who left behind his prescription methadone during a burglary-”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “But I don’t want to talk about my cases.”
“I think we can work around that.”
And for the rest of the evening, Ellie forced herself to be normal. No talk of killers, either past or current. She and Peter were on a date like two regular people.
And when Peter offered to walk her home, she had anything but work on her mind.
CHAPTER 25
THERE’S ALWAYS an easy way and a hard way.
Ellie had spoken those words to the drug-buying law student at Pulse as a warning that there were two ways she could search her purse. Now it was Thursday morning, and she repeated the phrase to herself as an entirely different kind of warning. She had three cold case files tucked discreetly in her top drawer, and she had a decision to make.
She could return the files to Central Records and pretend she had never received a call from Bill Harrington. Or she could try to retrace Flann McIlroy’s steps, a task that was probably impossible and would only complicate the case against Jake Myers.
She sat at her desk nursing a spoonful of Nutella, looking at the handwritten phone number on the back of Peter’s business card. An easy way or a hard way.
The dream witness in the solid case against Jake Myers. Easy. Cherry pie. Or the cop who breaks the news to Rogan, Dan Eckels, Simon Knight, Max Donovan, the mayor’s office, and-worst of all-Miriam and Paul Hart that there’s a problem. Not easy.
One more phone call.
“George Kittrie.”
“This is Ellie Hatcher. We met the other night at Plug Uglies, with Peter Morse?”
“You finally dumped that kid?”
“Nope. Not yet, at least. I’m actually calling about another mutual acquaintance-Flann McIlroy?”
“I’m just giving you a hard time. Morse told me you might reach out. I think he was afraid I might tear your head off if you called without notice. Something about three girls?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got a murder victim’s father calling the department for an update, saying McIlroy thought his daughter’s death was related to a couple of others. I figured I’d try to piece together what McIlroy was up to.”
She was walking a fine line here. She wanted to know if McIlroy had contacted Kittrie, but she didn’t want to tip him off to a story in the event that he hadn’t. The vaguer the information, and the more innocuous the request, the less likely Kittrie would go digging.
“Yeah, that rings a bell. He called, what, it must have been a few years ago-definitely after my book came out, so 2004? 2005?”
“That sounds about right,” Ellie said. She wondered if Kittrie had a regular habit of dropping references to his book.
“He wanted me to write a piece speculating a connection between three murders, all a few years apart. All the girls had been out on the town.”
“Do you have any notes?”
“Nah. It sounded like garbage at the time. The city’s a dangerous place at night, you know? And he wasn’t giving me anything to tie it all together. I realized by then that Mac wasn’t above using us. I figured he had an agenda of some kind.”
“So the club angle was the only thing tying the murders together?”
“Yeah. You know, same demographics, I guess-young women. But that was it. I’ve always been pretty cautious about what I’ll print under my byline. There was nothing to verify, so I wasn’t going to run with it.”
“Well, I can see why you’d pass. Thanks a lot for your time. I’ll get back to the victim’s dad and let him know there’s nothing new.”
“Glad to help those who protect and serve. Maybe I can hit you up for a return favor?”
Ellie had known when she called a reporter that there’d be a quid pro quo. “Yeah, shoot.”
“In the Chelsea Hart case, can you confirm that Jake Myers shaved the victim’s head?”
It felt like Kittrie had punched her in the throat. His information was not a hundred percent accurate, but it was close enough. She couldn’t remember the number of times the Wichita papers had printed something about the College Hill Strangler that may have started out as truth, but had morphed into something entirely different by the time it reached the press, like a fifth-hand message in a child’s game of Operator.
She couldn’t find words as her mind raced through Kittrie’s possible sources. She finally mustered a “No comment.” She was surprised by the force of the handset as she returned it to the carriage.
SHE WAS STILL processing Kittrie’s bombshell when Rogan showed up, a cup of Starbucks in one hand, his cell in the other.
“You seen the Lou yet?” He used his jaw to flip the phone shut.
“Huh-uh. You got a sec? We need to talk.”
“It’s gonna have to wait. Eckels just called me, pissed off about something. He wants us in his office, like, ten minutes ago.”
Rogan led the way, waving off her attempts to slow him down. He rapped his knuckles against the glass of Eckels’s closed door, then helped himself to the doorknob. Ellie caught a brief glimpse of their lieutenant speaking animatedly into his phone. He held up a hand momentarily, then gave them the all-clear.
“Ah, Rogan. I see you didn’t come alone.”
“You said it was about the Myers case. I figured you wanted me and Hatcher.”
“Sure. Why not? This is, after all, something that should definitely concern her. Have a seat.”
Rogan threw her a worried look.
“So, I got a phone call from the Public Information Office this morning,” Eckels announced. “Seems they just heard from a reporter at the Daily Post. You two know anything about this?”
“I just gave a no-comment to George Kittrie about five seconds ago.” Another worried look from Rogan. “He wanted confirmation that Myers shaved the vic’s head.”
“Shit.” Rogan bit his lower lip.
“Yeah, no shit, shit. So is one of you going to tell me why we’re losing control of this investigation?” Although the wording of the question was aimed at both of them, Ellie felt Eckels’s eyes fall directly on her. “And, by the way, the reporter who called the PIO wasn’t Kittrie, it was one Peter Morse. I want to know who let this leak.”