“Yeah, it looks like another Secondhand victim.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” she’d asked. “I’m trying to write these pieces for the paper, I would’ve come out—”
“That guy you’re working with just got here,” Hoskins said, and she wearily closed her eyes. “You know, the one you wrote that last article with?”
“I’m not working with him,” she said. “I have to go.”
She’d cradled her head in her hands, felt the tears coming on. Chris Weber, who’d gotten his name attached to her byline, was already at the crime scene; he’d managed to snake his way into the place before she’d heard a single word about it. Maybe it’s a sign that she’s not cut out for this work anymore, she doesn’t have the time to call the police department every few hours, hoping for news. It was different when the paper was her full-time job, when she had all day to chase leads and track down sources, but she doesn’t have that luxury now. But that’s an excuse—a lousy one, because if she wanted a story more than Weber she’d find a way to make it work, and it wouldn’t matter if she had a job or not.
Or maybe she has to get creative. She did it before, and it got her into Seever’s house, she’d landed the story of the decade. That’s all she needs now. She had to chase it differently from how most people would’ve, but in the end she got what she wanted. Maybe she’s going at it wrong, though. Maybe she needs to stop reporting, and start investigating. Corbin said he’d never publish Weber again if she found out Secondhand’s identity, and she knows he was joking—but what if she did find out?
She rubs her fingernails on the top of the table, making an irritating rasping sound, but she’s so deep in thought she doesn’t hear it. She can’t keep up with Weber, so it’s best to let him go running around the crime scenes, trying to squeeze whatever information he can out of the cops. Let him wear himself out, skipping around in endless circles. She’ll chase this story down, reach between its legs and squeeze till it screams, until it tells her who the Secondhand Killer is.
*
ALBERT Q. THOMAS, the sign above the art gallery’s door says. She’d looked it up at home, flipped through the website, scanning the list of artists who’ve had their work featured there.
Halfway down the list is Jacky Seever.
“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asks when she steps inside. He’s tall and serious-looking, with a thick beard, the kind that makes it hard to tell how old he is but also makes most men look like crazed lumberjacks. This man is no exception. “I’m about to close up shop for the night.”
“Oh, I’ll be quick,” she says, smiling so big her cheeks ache. “I saw online that you sell Jacky Seever’s work.”
There’s a pause, a long one, and she thinks she might’ve said the wrong thing but she can’t be too sure, this man has a poker face, more like a dead face, and she can’t figure out what he’s thinking.
“You a cop?”
“What? No. Why do you ask?”
The man narrows his eyes at her.
“I had this cop stop by earlier asking the same thing,” he says. “He had all kinds of questions about Seever.”
Loren, she thinks. Hoskins has been busy at the crime scene.
“So, you do sell Seever’s stuff?”
“I used to,” he says slowly. He grabs the flap of his ear and rubs it. “I haven’t lately, though. There used to be a lot of interest in his work, those things were flying outta here like hotcakes, but that petered out after a while. I’ve had a few calls in the last few weeks asking if I have any of his work—Seever’s wife brought in a few pieces last week and they sold for quite a bit, but the good stuff would go for a lot more. And I could sure as hell use the cash.”
“‘Good stuff’?” Sammie asks, genuinely puzzled. “What’s that?”
“Oh, when Seever first started it was all blood and gore. Sexual. Portraits of his victims. Morbid stuff, but it sold fast, and for a lot. But then it was all landscapes and bowls of fruit, and people stopped buying.”
“No interest in fruit?” she asks wryly.
“Oh, people would buy a square of toilet paper if they think Seever wiped it on his ass. Especially with these new murders going on.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says blandly, staring out at the nearly empty parking lot. “That’s all it takes. A few dead women and people are constantly calling for Seever’s stuff. I should’ve started killing a long time ago.”
She blinks, tilts her head to one side as she looks at him.