Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
I grimace again—I think grimacing is going to be a thing today—and mumble, “Thank you, Tic Tac, for telling me how to do my job.”
He adds to his message: …but you’d probably dislike me telling you what to do, and considering your current state of bitchiness I would delete that suggestion if I could.
Too late, I reply.
He leaves that alone, and instead sends me the doctor’s photo, and a complete background, as well as his work and home address. I inhale another donut, and text Jay: I’m headed downstairs
A few minutes later, we’re walking towards the doctor’s office, and Jay doesn’t say a word. I glance over at him. “Kane told you I’m a bitch today?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“Because you’re a little bitch,” I say.
He actually laughs. “You’re the bitch.”
I shrug, and head down the stairs into the subway tunnel. I manage to get ahead of him and lose him. It’s for his own safety.
A short ride takes me to Seventh Street, and I ride the elevator to the doctor’s office. Once I’m at his door, the sign reads “Closed”. I knock anyway. And I knock again. The door finally creeps open, and a short brunette female in her thirties appears.
“Is Landry in?”
“Sorry, we’re closed.”
I flash my badge. “Not anymore. Where is he?”
“Oh, ah—let me see if he’s in.”
“You were just in there. Does he hide under his desk or something so you can’t see him?” I call out, “Landry! FBI. I need to ask you a few questions.”
The woman’s face flushes red, and the door opens wider, and Landry appears. He’s tall, with sandy brown hair, and sunbaked skin that speaks of recent travels or a tanning bed, the splay of wrinkles by his eyes aging him beyond his forty-one years. I hope like hell he really did take a trip to some place sunny because I approve of men who tan about as much as I approve of ponytails and the name Landry.
Not at all.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“You can. Do you want to do so out here or with me in there?”
“Come in.” He backs up and then says, “My office is this way.” He starts walking. I’m not much of a follower, but I follow. It’s the only way to get to where we’re going.
His office is a basic desk and chair with a small couch to the left. He sits behind the desk, using the wooden surface as a shield from my badge. They all do.
“You’re Grant Love’s daughter,” he says.
It’s not the rabbit hole for him to go down today. “Agent Mendez,” I say, not denying or confirming who my father might be.
“You’re handling those murders, right? They flashed your photo at the press conference several times.”
“I am.”
“I don’t understand,” he says, his hands under his desk, a nervous edge to his voice. “Why are you here, talking to me?”
“One of the victims was your patient.”
“No,” he says. “Not that I know of.”
“You didn’t know Natalie Smart?” When he offers me a blank stare, I pull her photo up on my phone and set it on the desk.
His eyes go wide. “Oh my God.” His gaze jerks to mine. “She’s dead?”
“You knew about the murders. How did you not know about Natalie?”
“I was in the Bahamas for two weeks and then—I mean I saw the press conference, but I hadn’t realized until then there was anything big happening at all. The officials said something about a murder and the talk of a serial killer wasn’t confirmed. And Natalie wasn’t a patient. She was my real estate agent. She helped me find a house for my mother.”
“Were you sleeping with her?”
“God, no. I’m friends with her future father-in-law. Oh, Jesus. How is Grayson handling this?”
“Grayson is dead, too.”
He pales. “Holy hell.” He stands up. Then sits down. “I—I don’t what to say. David? He’s not—”
“No. He’s alive and suffering.”
“Of course, he is. He and Grayson were close. I have to call him. I went to school with him. We meet here and there to catch up. I can’t believe this. It’s like a bad dream.”
His reaction reads genuine, and I’d write him off, but the horror club meeting is hard to ignore. “Why were you at a horror club meeting last night?”
Shock slides over his features. “How do you know that?”
“Why were you there?”
“I have a twelve-year-old who loves horror movies. We don’t connect well, and part of that is the fact that he lives in New Jersey. One of my patients told me about it and suggested it might be a way to connect with him, but I didn’t want to take him there until I saw what it was like.”
“And?”
“A bunch of geeks who love murder. It was strange to me. I now think my son needs counseling. I don’t need a future serial killer as a son.”