Going Rogue, Page 2

  Because I’m going to find a way to make sure the killer spends life behind bars. I just don’t have a clue how—yet.

  I press my lips together, forcing the smile away. When I’m confident it won’t split my lips again, I say, “Just wondering what’s going to be different about you tomorrow.” I cut my eyes to her hair. “Adding some blue streaks would work well, I think.”

  “Oh no,” she says, wagging a finger at me. “Don’t lie to me. I know that look. You can’t interfere.”

  I’m momentarily caught off guard by her sharp tone. “Why the hell not?”

  “It’s not your job to mess with the timeline,” she argues. “It’s cheating. No one can cheat Death.”

  I scoff. “It’s not cheating until the name makes it on the list. I’m simply suggesting finding a way to ensure some names don’t make it there quite yet.”

  Kristen scrunches her nose up at my response and launches into the lecture. I’m vaguely listening as I eye the door. I don’t even try to be discreet about it. I need to get going. Start an investigation. Really, how hard could it possibly be to catch a serial killer? I’ve watched my fair share of crime shows. I know the basics of an investigation. Interview people, check out the crime scenes. All things I kind of do in my day job anyway.

  Simple enough.

  Kristin is still rambling, reminding me I’m not supposed to argue. I’m not supposed to interfere with an assignment. I don’t need to understand. My job is to collect the souls. That’s it. I’m Alexa Cross, and I’m a Grim Reaper. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  “Are you even hearing me, Alexa?”

  She stares at me, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, ma’am, I hear you,” I say, pulling my wallet out of my purse. I toss some cash on the table, then shove my wallet and assignment into my bag. “I’ve got to run.”

  “Alexa...”

  “I know. I know,” I grumble, cutting her off. “Collect the soul. Don’t interfere. I’m on it.”

  Kristen narrows her eyes and gives me a long, appraising look. Eventually, she nods, seemingly satisfied. “Same time tomorrow?”

  I grin. “You can count on it.”

  THREE

  I DO A QUICK DRIVE-by of the strip club before heading to my apartment. It’s still early, barely six o’clock, and the crime scene is quiet and undisturbed. But it won’t be long now before someone notices the body and calls it in. With any luck, I’ll be able to shower, change and do some investigating on The Clown Maker before my day job comes calling.

  Being a Grim Reaper doesn’t pay well. Actually, Death doesn’t pay a cent, which in my opinion is ridiculous. We may be dead, but we still need to eat, sleep and exercise to maintain our human-like bodies, we also need to keep a roof over our heads. Some Reapers choose to steal from their assignments to make ends meet. Me? I got a job.

  I work at The Local Observer to pay the bills. Reporter by day, reaper by night—kind of. I get the odd day reap, but it doesn’t happen often. Not because humans aren’t murdered during the daytime, but because Death takes our other life schedules into account when doling out our assignments.

  My apartment isn’t in the best area of the city, but it suits me just fine. Less of a commute for most of my assignments. I pull into the lot behind the low-rise building, and hop out of my car, locking it.

  The lot is quiet, and so is the street. Most of the residents around this area don’t bother waking before noon. They say crime never sleeps, but around here the criminals sure do.

  My apartment is on the first floor. The moment I walk in the door, I go straight for my make-shift office, which consists of a desk and chair in the living room, and turn on the police scanner.

  I have a quick shower, then call Greg, my editor. No answer. That’s fine. He never really cares if I make it into the office, as long as my story is in by the deadline. I leave a quick message, letting him know I have a lead on a story, and that I’ll be in later.

  Searching through my assignment again, I look for some hint that my gut is right. But aside from the date pattern and the time, there’s nothing else to go on. I could ask Death, but I already know how that will play out. He’d just chuckle and tell me to stop trying to save everyone because not everyone needs or wants to be saved.

  Pushing the letter aside, I move on to some Internet searches. Although I know a few things about the killer, I have no idea what the media’s take on the investigation is. Usually, this kind of story is right up my alley, but I didn’t pursue it, because holy crap, watching it happen was more than enough for me.

  My first search: Clown + Murder + Redport. I scan through the results, and eventually, I find a few articles, including one from The Local Observer.

  I look over the articles, jotting down the names of the first two victims, but they don’t give me much else to go on. Not that I’m surprised. The killer hasn’t been caught yet, and it’s pretty clear that the police are trying to keep critical components of the case under wraps.

  I try adding a few search terms, basically anything I can think of. Nothing new comes up. I guess if a few Internet searches were that easy, the cops would have already nabbed the guy.

  Next, I try searching the victims. Chris Stevenson is easy enough to find: a thirty-three-year-old businessman. Two children, recently divorced. Nothing spectacular, and definitely nothing that would naturally make him a victim of a serial killer.

  Gary Thompson though, his rap sheet is crazy long. Assault, robbery, car theft, the list goes on and on. He’d only been out of prison two weeks before he died. Never married, no kids. Died at age thirty-three.

  Huh, more threes. I wonder what the significance is. Maybe I’ll ask the killer when I track him down.

  I search and search, trying to find some connection between the two victims, but other than being the same age, there is nothing obvious. Do serial killers randomly pick victims? I don’t know, but I’m positive there has to be more here than what I’m finding.

  Going back to the article written by The Local Observer, I look up the reporter’s name. Sandra Ross. I’ve heard of her and have read most of her stuff. Never met her, though. One of the A-list reporters. She’s rarely in the office, preferring to submit via email, but Greg once told me she was amazing and since he doesn’t speak highly of many people, I figure she must be pretty fantastic. Her stories sure are.

  Scanning the article again, I’m a bit shocked that Sandra wrote it. It’s vague, bordering on boring. Lots of ‘no comments.’ Not a single interview. Not really the kind of piece she typically produces.

  After a moment of hesitation and a quick glance at the clock, I pull my phone out of my purse and log into The Local Observer database, searching for Sandra’s contact information. I find her quickly enough and tap on her cell phone number, placing the call.

  Sandra answers on the first ring. “You’ve got Ross.”

  “Hey, Sandra. It’s Alexa Cross. I’m a reporter for The Local Observer.”

  She laughs. “I know who you are. What can I do for you, Alexa?”

  “I was wondering if you had time for a coffee. I’d like to pick your brain on a theory I’m working on if you can spare the time.”

  There’s a long pause before she lets out an audible sigh. “As great as coffee sounds, I can’t. Not for a week or two at least. I’m out of town on assignment. What’s the topic?”

  “The Clown Maker. I have a theory.”

  Another long pause.

  “Oh really?” she asks eventually. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got.”

  I give her a quick rundown, pointing out the pattern I noticed.

  “Interesting,” she says when I finish. “Do you want to take a crack at a follow-up story?”

  My cheeks flush. I’m sure a follow-up would be excellent for my career, but spending a few hours pounding out the story is just wasting time with a serial killer on the loose. But holy crap! Is Sandra Ross really offering me one of her stories?

  “Hell yes,” I
blurt out. “I mean, if you don’t want to run with it, I’d love the chance to write it.”

  “Go for it,” she says, a touch of amusement in her voice.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course. I’ll send you everything I have.”

  I blink. That was easy. Maybe a little too easy. I open my mouth, ready to ask why she’s so willing to hand it over to me, but close it just as quickly.

  Frankly, I don’t really care why she doesn’t want to do the follow-up piece. I want her research and a reason to poke around the case. If writing a follow-up will get me that, I’m in.

  “Awesome,” I say, sounding far too enthusiastic, and try to dial it back a notch. I don’t want to give her any reason to change her mind. “So, you really wouldn’t mind sharing any research you have, right?”

  Sandra laughs awkwardly. “Can I be honest with you?”

  I hesitate. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’m glad to be rid of this stuff. The whole clown mask... it’s kept me up at night. Creepy shit.” She sighs, long and loud. “I’ll warn you, though, I don’t have much info. Spinning a story on the patterns you noticed, hinting there might be another victim tonight... That’s probably your best bet.”

  “The cops must have seen the pattern,” I say. “I can’t believe they’d miss it.”

  “I’m guessing yes, they saw it, but they’re holding a lot back. Probably trying to weed out the wannabees and wackos.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “I wish I had more to tell you, Alexa, but I don’t. The victim’s families refused to talk to me. The police are keeping it all hush-hush. Even my contact at the station shut me down. I’ll email you what I have, though, and you can run with it.”

  “Thank you, Sandra. Seriously, thank you.”

  “Sure. Got to run. I’ll email you soon.”

  Sandra hangs up before I can get another word out. Setting the phone down, I pull up my emails. I figure I better send something off to let my editor know I’m taking over The Clown Maker story. I’m just about to hit send when the alert comes over the police scanner. My strip club victim has been found. I hit send, shut down my laptop, and rush to my room to get dressed.

  FOUR

  DRESSED IN A LIGHT blue cowl-neck top and a pair of jet-black skinny jeans, and armed with my camera, recorder and a crapload of questions, I stroll out the door. By the time I arrive, the area is swarming with police. The medical examiner is already on scene, in the middle of his preliminary walkthrough.

  I park as close as I can, which ends up being a block away. Squeezing my way through the onlookers and cruisers barricading the entrance to the alley, I quickly take in the scene. It looks much like it did last night, though, in the daylight, everything looks grungier. Dirty and unkempt. The dumpster at the back is overflowing, something I didn’t notice last night, and the strong scents of urine, garbage, and booze send my stomach into a loop the closer I get.

  I make my way into the mouth of the alley, head up and shoulders high. I’ve found that if you look like you belong the rookies at the perimeter rarely pay you any attention. I’m just about to duck under the police tape when a voice stops me short.

  “Well, now, look who decided to show up.”

  I turn toward it, cringing at my horrible luck. Detective Cameron Kelley. No way he’s going to let any juicy details slip. Not without a catch.

  Cameron is hot, so handsome, it’s hard to look right at him without staring. I think it’s one of the reasons I don’t like him much. The man has muscles. Lots of them. All defined and compact. Dark hair and bright blue eyes. And that jawline... perfect.

  In another life, or rather in my old life, I would have killed to have a guy like him notice me. In this life, though... I kind of wish he wouldn’t.

  It’s not that Reapers can’t date, exactly. I just choose not to, especially not with a human. There’s no future there. They age and die, but I won’t.

  He strolls toward me, and I straighten up, nodding in acknowledgment. “Detective Kelley,” I say, and I force a big smile. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  The look he gives me makes me want to dart out of the alley and say screw the story.

  “It’s a little late for you, isn’t it? We’re almost done here.”

  I snort, shaking off the unease. He’s taller than me, though that really isn’t uncommon. At five-foot-nothing, everyone is taller than me. I crane my neck back, meeting his eyes.

  “You all aren’t even close to wrapping up the scene.”

  “Close enough,” he says, folding his arms over his thick chest.

  Rolling my eyes, I tear them away from his impressive chest and glance at the body lying just beyond the police tape. “Do you have an ID yet?”

  “Wouldn’t tell you if I did,” he says, his tone losing the sharp edge. “You know that.”

  “It’s always worth a try,” I say and shrug. I peer around him, doing a quick scan of the body. Nothing has been moved. Nothing has changed. “It’s all good though. I know who it is. I was only hoping you’d confirm it for the story.”

  “Of course you do.” He chuckles. “Who leaked it this time?”

  “I can’t give out my source,” I smirk. “You know that.”

  Taking a step back, I lift my camera from its place hanging around my neck and start snapping a few shots. It’s perfect timing; the medical examiner is just finishing up, covering up the body.

  Detective Kelley watches me carefully. The scowl on his face lets me know that he is not thrilled with the photos, but he doesn’t bother trying to stop me. We’ve crossed paths so many times he knows it’s useless. I always get my shots.

  “Isn’t this story below you?” he asks as I lower my camera. “You’re usually out chasing the big ones.”

  “Maybe you haven’t heard, but Joey Parelli dying a week before he takes the stand is a pretty big story.” I glance back at the mouth of the alley. “I’m surprised there isn’t more news coverage here.”

  “How is it you’re always the first reporter on the scene? And how exactly do you know it’s Joey Parelli?”

  Because I’m the Grim Reaper who was charged with releasing his soul last night. Actually, I see every single death I write about. I’m pretty much the key witness to over half your cases. Oh, and if I wasn’t so scared of winding up in Purgatory, I could’ve helped you save ninety-one people in the last six months.

  Instead of telling the truth, because no way would he believe me, I flash a meek smile and offer up a slight shrug. “I already told you, Detective, I can’t reveal my sources. So why don’t we just skip all that, okay?”

  “Right,” he says, and his jaw clenches.

  “Are you going to give me a statement or not?”

  “Why don’t we do this over breakfast? I know a great place a couple blocks from here. I’ll give you an exclusive.”

  And there it is. The catch.

  Tempting. Seriously tempting. Just like every other time Detective Kelley has made the offer to take me out. But he’s never struck me as the casual kind of guy, and if I were to consider a date, it’d have to be casual. My life is far too messed up to have anything else with a human or otherwise.

  I shake my head. “No thanks.”

  “No thanks?” He narrows his eyes at me. “That’s it? No witty remark this time?”

  “I’ve got work to do,” I say. “If you don’t give me the story, I’ll go talk to the rookie.”

  He eyes me. He hates caving, but he knows I’ll get the story one way or another. I always do. Finally, he says, “What do you want to know?”

  “Why wasn’t he in a safe house?”

  “He was,” Cameron admits and looks around the crime scene, not appearing overly thrilled about being there.

  “Come on, Detective. You’ve got to give me a little more than that if you don’t want to see a headline like Officer’s Nap Ends With Lead Witness Dead.”

  He opens his mouth, closes it, frowning as he considers the
headline, then he clears his throat. “You’re not playing fair.”

  I grin, and turn on my recorder. “Neither are you.”

  FIVE

  NEXT STOP IS THE OFFICE.

  Before leaving the crime scene, I grilled Detective Kelley, but he didn’t tell me much. Someone screwed up, and he wasn’t going to admit that, not to a reporter at least.

  Once I realized I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him, or any of the cops on the scene, I left, heading to the office, working a basic story through my mind. It should be easy enough to pound out and submit, and with that out of the way, I can focus on The Clown Maker.

  The Local Observer fills the top floor of the building. I’m just stepping into the elevator when my phone chirps, telling me I have a text. I press the button, then rifle through my bag, and pull out my phone as the door slides shut. The message is from Kristen.

  KRISTEN: What time is your assignment tonight? Thought I’d tag along.

  I eye the message, brows furrowing. The last time Kristen wanted to tag along, it was because she didn’t believe I was ready to do the job solo. That was nearly three months ago now. I quickly tap out a response.

  Me: Really? Why?

  Her reply comes so quickly, I haven’t even closed the messaging app before my phone chirps again.

  Kristin: Feeling a little nostalgic. It’ll be fun. Like old times.

  Me: I’m not buying it. You hate team-ups.

  The elevator door slides open, and I step into the office, making my way through the reporter desks that litter the floor. As always, it’s a little chaotic. The buzz of phones and people chattering fill the air.

  As I reach my desk in the center of the room, my phone chirps again, another message from Kristin popping up on the screen.

  Kristin: Fine. I like you. I don’t want to see you do something stupid.