The Executioner

Ninety-Eight

The huge open-plan floor was a labyrinth of large and small desks. All of them piled high with books and cluttered with stacks of papers and photographs. Oversized computer monitors, telephones, framed family pictures and cuddly toys occupied whatever worktop space was left. There were no placards hanging from the ceilings. No names anywhere. No way of knowing who was who or who did what. The place sounded like a beehive, bustling with phone talk and keyboard clacks. Over two hundred people in total putting the final touches to the stories that would make the next morning’s edition of the LA Times.

Claire Anderson sat at the far corner, facing a desk that looked more like a coffee table than a reporter’s workstation. Even though she’d made the front page of yesterday’s edition with her serial killer/psychic girl story, she was still on her trial period. Sure, yesterday’s story had certainly won her a few Brownie points, but she knew that in this game there were no certainties. Yesterday’s front page could easily become today’s old news. She had to follow it up; she had to keep the buzz going. Instinct was telling her that she’d stumble onto something different.

A killer like no one had ever seen before, but she needed more information. Unfortunately, she was well aware that she’d pissed off the lead detective in the case. She couldn’t allow this story to run away from her. She had to explore the angle that only she and no other reporter had found out – the psychic girl.

Last night at Trader Vic’s Lounge, Claire had a feeling the phone call Hunter received at their table had something to do with the girl. But by the time she collected her coat and made it outside Hunter had gone. Not wanting to waste any time, Claire jumped into a cab and made her way back to the same old and squalid hotel in Lynwood where she’d followed the girl after her coffee shop meeting with Hunter and Garcia. But she was also gone. The tall, bald landlord at reception told Claire he hadn’t seen the girl he called Monica since the previous night.

‘You her friend?’ he asked in an unrecognizable foreign accent. His breath stunk of booze. ‘If you good friend you pay me the money she owes, huh? She no pay no rent for three weeks.’ He lifted three long, bony fingers. Their nails crusted with dirt.

‘I’m not that good a friend,’ Claire replied, subtly covering her nose with her right hand. ‘But I’ll tell you what Mr…?’

‘Petrosky. Pat Petrosky.’

‘I’ll tell you what, Pat.’ She scribbled her name and number on a piece of paper and placed it on the counter. ‘If you call me as soon as you see her again, and I mean the very same second, you can make yourself a hundred bucks. How does that sound?’

Pat read the note without picking it up. When he looked up, his eyes stopped at Claire’s cleavage. ‘OK, Claire. You got deal.’

Claire still hadn’t heard a word from ‘smelly-man’. She sat staring at her laptop screen, tapping a ballpoint pen against her teeth. She still had one trump card to play. By chance, she’d managed to track down one of Mollie’s friends. A twenty-three-year-old waitress named Susan who used to work with her.

Claire’s cell phone vibrated on the desk. She snatched it up.

‘Claire Anderson here.’

It was the newspaper’s phone operator. Claire didn’t have a direct line. Reporters on trial periods never did, so any calls that came into the LA Times main switchboard asking for her were diverted to her cell phone.

‘Miss Anderson, I’ve got someone on the phone for you,’ the operator said.

‘Someone, who?’

‘He doesn’t wanna give me his name. He called several times yesterday and a few this morning. I recognize the voice.’

‘OK, put him through.’ She heard a click. ‘This is Claire Anderson.’

‘The reporter?’

‘Yes,’ she chuckled, ‘the reporter. What shall I call you?’

‘You can call me friend.’

Claire squeezed her eyes and shook her head slowly as the term ‘crackpot’ entered her head. ‘How can I help you, Mr. Friend?’

‘I was wondering if we could meet. Maybe we can help each other.’

‘And what would you like to meet about?’

No reply, only heavy breathing.

‘Hello…? Are you still there?’

‘I’m here.’

‘So what would you like to meet about?’

‘Someone who in your article you called “the psychic girl”.’

Claire straightened her body and sat up. Something in his voice made her shiver.

‘She’s not who you think she is.’