“It sounds amazing,” she says. “And I still have all my old files, all the photos. I’d be happy to come back.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Sammie thinks that they might’ve been disconnected, until Corbin gives a kind of laugh, rough and hoarse, like the bark of a dog.
“I think you’re misunderstanding me, Sam. I’m not asking you to come write for the Post again. I was under the impression you’d given up writing. Sam, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” she says, and it’s incredible how normal her voice sounds, like there’s nothing wrong at all, but Ethan is looking at her, concerned. I must look upset, she thinks vaguely. Like I got bad news. Like I’m being told someone set my house on fire and murdered my dog. Jesus. She swivels on the plastic seat, turns away so she’s watching the guys at the pizza counter twirl their dough and slice up the pies. “Then why’d you call me?”
“I wanted to see if you’d help Weber out,” Corbin says. “Get him up to speed on Seever, share your sources—or point him in the right direction.”
“Weber?” she says. “You gave this assignment to Chris Weber?”
“Yeah. You remember him?”
“Of course I do,” she says, shaking her head. Chris Weber was a complete jackass. A moron who’d been raised to think his shit didn’t stink. He was a big ol’ boy, tall and broad but not fat, liked to wear sweatshirts with the sleeves pushed up past the elbows. He was the type of guy people expected to see working the crime desk, and Sammie had hated him from the moment they’d met. “He’s a fucking tool.”
“Sam, he’s been doing solid work.”
“I haven’t seen any of it.”
“You still read the Post?”
“Occasionally.” Oh, the lies. She still has the paper delivered, she reads it every morning as soon as she pulls herself out of bed and brews a pot of coffee, from the front page all the way to the back, every single word. Dean didn’t like it, called her a baby with a pacifier, and maybe that was true, but she told him to go fuck himself and did it anyway. Sometimes she’d read the paper and then get on her computer and pull up the online versions of her old articles, although they were getting harder to find, buried in the backlog of Internet garbage, and she’d read them, slowly, so it became that she’d memorized nearly every word she’d ever typed. Her photo, the expensive one she’d had done by a professional that helped readers remember her face is gone, but her name was still there, and it always would be; at least they couldn’t take that away from her.
“His first big piece comes out tomorrow, front-page stuff. Take a look when you get a chance. It’s good. He’s a hell of a reporter, all I’m asking is that you help him out. Throw me a fucking bone, Sam.”
“What’s it about?”
“You know I can’t say.”
“Quit being an asshole, Corbin. You’re already running the damn story, it won’t be a secret for long.”
“Did you hear about those two women pulled out of Chatfield Reservoir a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah,” she says. The story had caused a big flurry—two women murdered, possibly raped, then dumped in the water. A couple on an afternoon walk had spotted them and called the cops. “I didn’t think any details had been released on them yet. Even their names.”
“Weber tracked down some cops out drinking, bought them some beers, pumped them for information. Got the whole story.”
“And what is the story?”
“The two gals the cops pulled out are Tanya Brody and Selene Abeyta.”
It takes her a minute to recognize the names, less than a minute, but then she remembers. She’d interviewed both the women after Seever’s arrest, although back then they’d been girls in their senior year of high school, and they’d spent quite a bit of time doing chores out at Seever’s place for cash. They’d both agreed to talk to her about Seever, and they’d come to the interview together, because they were best friends forever, they didn’t do anything separately.
Thank goodness we did, Tanya had said. If he’d caught one of us alone, we’d probably be dead right now.
He always gave me the creeps, Selene had said, and the two girls had laughed at that, snidely, although Sammie hadn’t included that in her article.
And now, seven years later, they were dead. They’d died as they’d lived—together. Sammie could remember the two of them, laughing and squealing as she interviewed them, excited about their fifteen minutes of fame, taking the chewed gum in their mouths and trading it with each other. Back then, she’d found the pair irritating, she’d been glad when they’d left, even though they made for a good story.
“Are you serious?” she asks.
“Serious as a heart attack,” Corbin says. “Missing for several days before they were found. The cops didn’t give specifics, but they said those two were murdered the same way Seever would’ve done it.”
“They think Seever’s involved somehow?”
“Maybe. Seems fishy, two women who he might’ve been grooming as victims showing up dead. You used to think Seever might’ve had a partner. You might be right, and the guy’s finally decided to finish what they started.”