Double Cross

parkway and FedExField and then said he didn’t do it?
    AARON_AARON: Yeah, exactly. What if?
    GINSOAKED: Freakin’ brill.
    ADAMEVE: I’m all over that too.
    REDRUM5: No way. Did you read the public file? Any of you?
    AARON_AARON: So what? I wouldn’t put it past him. This dude is a total master mindfucker. I’m sure we won’t be able to guess what’s coming next. Hey, by the way, what does everybody think about that dude Kyle Craig getting out of stir early?
    DCAK-FAN: K.C. is so yesterday, man. Who cares?

    The killer looked up from his computer. He was being summoned.
    “Dinner’s ready! Come and get it or I’ll throw it away.”

Chapter 55

    THE PRESS CONFERENCE SCHEDULED for this afternoon was Bree’s first as lead investigator on a murder case anywhere near this size. She’d spoken with reporters plenty of times, just not a room filled with every media type in the city and several national outlets too—which was what we were expecting today. At least that.
    “Will you go up there with me?” she asked. We were working over the prepared statement in her office. “The press knows you, and the public has seen you before. I think it’ll send the right signal to keep things a little calmer.”
    I looked up from the draft in front of me. “Yeah, sure. If that’s what you want.”
    “Yeah, that’s what I want. Okay, I’m nervous,” Bree said next, surprising me with the admission.
    “You’ll do great,” I told her, because I believed it to be true. “Introduce me at the beginning, and then you’ll have a seamless pass-off if there’s anything you want me to take. I’ll just be there for backup.”
    Bree finally grinned. “Thanks. You’re the best.”
    Right, and isn’t that what got me involved in this mess?
    But then she gave me a big hug and whispered, “I love you. And I look forward to paying the debt. I
really
look forward to that.”
    We got to our improvised pressroom at four thirty, plenty of time to make the six o’clock news, which was the whole idea. Every seat was already taken, plus there were reporters and cameras gathered in a
U
around the perimeter. “Dr. Cross! Detective Stone!” the photographers called out our names, trying to get a good shot.
    “Never let ’em see you sweat,” I said to Bree.
    “Too late for that.”
    She stepped to the podium, introduced me, and began her statement without using notes.
She’s smooth, good at this
, I thought,
very poised and confident
. The press liked her too. I could tell that right away.
    I stood to the side, just close enough to be in Bree’s peripheral vision when the questions came.
    The first couple were softballs that she handled easily. No hits, no runs, no errors.
    Tim Pullman from Channel Four got in the first toughie. “Detective, will you now confirm the existence of a copycat killer? Or is it just conjecture?”
    The question made me wonder if he had even listened to her initial statement, but Bree patiently went over it all again.
    “Tim, the evidence points that way—toward a copycat—but we’re not in a position to rule anything in or out conclusively, pending further investigation of the message that was sent. We’re on it. The FBI is involved too. Everybody is working overtime, believe me.”
    “When you say
message
, do you mean the posting on SerialTimes?” someone yelled out from the back.
    “That’s right, Carl. Like I said a minute ago. If you were listening?”
    The same reporter continued, undeterred by Bree’s mild zinger. He was a short redheaded man whom I recognized from one of the cable channels. “Detective, can you explain how this Web site has remained online despite the strenuous objections of the victims’ families? What’s with that?”
    We hadn’t actually been briefed on this—the families—so I watched Bree closely, ready to jump in if she wanted me to. That would be her call.
    “We’re trying to leave open the possibility of dialogue with all suspects in these killings. We’d welcome their direct communication, and for the sake of resolving this as quickly as possible, we’ve decided not to close any established channels. Including the Web site.”
    “Why the hell not? Why not close it down now?”
An angry shout came from the back of the room. Heads and cameras swiveled around. I caught sight of a man, Alberto Ramirez.
Oh, brother!
It was his daughter Lydia who had been killed on the parkway overpass.

Chapter 56

    THE GRIEVING FATHER’S VOICE was tight but