“You got a problem?” Daniel asked. No pleasantries.
Harry sucked on his cigarette, thinking the question over. “You let an amateur write the article about the hottest crime this city has seen since the killer clown.”
“What’s it to you? I thought the article was good. It had some sordid details. It had several quotes from the police. It had an expert. It had—”
“Our readers don’t care what the experts have to say. He sounds as dry as pencil shavings. Our readers don’t want to hear what our so-called police source had to say either. Especially when all the police say is ‘We’re looking into it.’”
“Really? And whose opinion would our readers like to hear?”
“Oprah.”
Daniel blinked. “Oprah Winfrey?”
“It’s her city. What does she think about a creepy man sculpting women into statues?”
“That’s not what he does . . . and Oprah lives in California. And she isn’t exactly an expert in crime. Or serial killings.”
Harry dropped the half-smoked cigarette on the ground and stomped it angrily. “No one wants her to be an expert; she’s Oprah. And she owns an apartment in Chicago, which makes her one of us. Hell, we could do a whole article about the Chicago celebrities and what they think of the monster roaming their beloved city. Kanye West, Tina Fey, Harrison Ford—”
“None of them live here.”
Harry brushed it away. “They used to. This is their city, and this deranged undertaker is threatening the safety of their people.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Fine. Not Oprah, then. You know who you should ask what they think? People on the beach.”
“The beach?”
“Yeah. Women, mostly. One hot guy. Preferably put their pictures in the article, in their swimsuits. Ask them how they would react if they came across one of the Strangling Undertaker’s works of art.”
“He’s an artist now?”
“Sure. Why not? It’s a good angle. Our readers would love that. My point is this is sexy.”
Daniel gave him a supposedly piercing stare, but Harry prided himself on being immune to those.
“Harry, you’re good at writing human interest stories. You’re the master of sex scandals.”
Harry nodded in appreciation of his dubious title.
“But this is a story about a monster. And what our readers want is the story about the hunt. The attempts of the police to grab the elusive killer as he kills yet another innocent woman. They want to read about the violence, the fear, and the death. This is what excites people about serial killers.”
“It’s the wrong way to go about it, Daniel. That’s what everyone is doing.”
“That’s precisely why we should do the same.”
They both stood facing each other and for a second let the sounds of Chicago’s traffic fill the air.
“Let me do it,” Harry finally said. “I can nail this thing.”
“I don’t want an article about what Oprah thinks about this killer,” his editor said, his tone sharp and final. “This isn’t your story. You can’t write about crime. Go do your job.”
“Why don’t you do your job for once?” Harry asked.
The change in Daniel’s face made Harry think that perhaps this hadn’t been the most prudent thing to say.
“You know.” Daniel folded his arms. “I have a really important article I need you to write.”
CHAPTER 28
Daniella Ortiz lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Pilsen, a neighborhood on the west side of Chicago. It was a neighborhood well known for its thriving art, and art students in Chicago, like Daniella and the late Susan Warner, tended to flock there.
The small living room was not much different than Zoe’s own living room back in Dale City. But while Zoe kept her walls bare except for two tiny paintings Andrea had bought for her, Daniella’s walls were covered with framed photographs. The cluttered decoration made the room seem much smaller, almost claustrophobic.
“Please come in,” Daniella said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
Her fashion sense matched her interior design tastes. It looked like she was striving to wear all the colors at once. She had a red bandanna, a yellow blouse over a green shirt, blue jeans, and orange-and-pink sneakers. She had several beaded bracelets on her right wrist, their dominant colors purple, brown, and black. She should be accompanied by a warning for people with epilepsy. Zoe was pleased with her own wit. She would have to remember to tell Andrea about it later.
“Nothing, thanks,” Zoe said, just as Tatum asked if there was any coffee.
“Sure,” Daniella said and smiled at Zoe. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“Uh . . . yeah. If Agent Gray is drinking a cup, I’d love some as well, thanks.”
Daniella went to the kitchen, and Zoe approached the wall, looking at the pictures. They seemed to be a collection of enlarged close-ups. A large photograph of a dewdrop on a leaf. A series of icicles on a branch. A winged insect, photographed from above, its wings translucent and intricate. Some pictures on the far wall were urban pictures of streets that felt European. All the pictures were beautiful, but as a whole they bombarded the room with colors and shapes. It made Zoe uncomfortable.
Daniella came back, holding two cups of coffee. “You like them?”
“Uh . . . yeah, they’re very beautiful.”
“The close-ups are mine. My boyfriend did the streets of Venice. He was an exchange student there a year ago.”
“You’re both art students?”
“Well . . . I still am. Ryan’s working at an auto repair shop now. But we met in college when he was a student as well.”
“That’s nice,” Zoe said. She had only met two guys at college, and both had turned out to be crappy boyfriends.
“Have a seat, please,” Daniella said, nodding at the one couch in the room. Zoe and Tatum sat, and she set their cups of coffee on a low round table that stood next to the couch. For a moment, Zoe thought Daniella would sit on the couch between them, an awkward arrangement for questioning, even more so since the couch was a two-seater. But to her relief, Daniella walked back into the kitchen and returned with a small chair on which she sat, facing them both.
“I saw in the news that they found another victim,” she said. “That’s so scary. I don’t dare leave home after dark now, and I check that the door is locked at least four times a day. Are you any closer to catching this guy?”
“We’re making progress,” Tatum said. “Can we ask a few questions about Susan?”
“Sure. Whatever I can do to help. Hang on; maybe my boyfriend can answer some questions too. He met Susan a couple of times.”
“Sure,” Tatum said.
“Ryan!” Daniella shouted, and Zoe’s teeth gritted at the piercing sound. “Can you come here a sec?”
A tall, wide-shouldered man with rich black hair came from the bedroom. “Yeah? Oh, hello,” he said, noticing Zoe and Tatum. “Sorry, I was wearing my headphones. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“Ryan, these are Special Agents Gray and Bentley. They’re here to ask some questions about Susan. Want to join us?”
“Sure,” Ryan said. “Anything to help.” He looked around, searching for a place to sit down. Eventually he grabbed another chair from the kitchen and sat down with them.
Zoe sipped from her coffee cup, the taste jolting her. Seemed like Daniella loved everything strong and intense. She watched Tatum as he began questioning Susan’s friend.
“How long did you know Susan?”
“I met her about a year before she was killed. Maybe a bit more,” Daniella said. “But Ryan only met her after we started dating. So he only knew her for a couple of months.”
“Right,” Ryan said. “She was nice.”
“Were you two good friends?”
“Yes,” Daniella said, her voice softening. “She was my best friend. And I think I was hers too. She didn’t have many friends.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, she was a quiet type, you know? Always preferred to stay home and study or paint. She didn’t go out much.”
“So she didn’t ordinarily invite many people to her place.”
“No, not at all. And her apartment was even smaller than mine. She couldn’t really have large gatherings there, you know?”