Going Rogue, Page 3

  Her message makes me laugh. Taking a seat, I open my desk drawer and stash my purse before I respond.

  Me: Seriously? Have a little faith. I know what I’m doing.

  Kristin: Haha. I don’t believe that for a second.

  Me: I gotta go. Have a story to get in. See you in the morning, okay?

  Kristin: I don’t like this.

  Me: Stop worrying. It’ll be fine. Talk later.

  I take a deep breath, I set my phone on the desk and turn on my computer. My desk is a mess of papers, receipts, sticky notes, and paperclips. I start tidying as I wait for my computer to boot up. I try to tell myself I’m doing it because I need a clean workspace to focus, but it’s a lie. I work better in chaos. The truth is, Kristen’s worry is getting to me. Reminding me what lies ahead if Death clues in that I’m planning on catching a killer.

  My screen comes to life, prompting me to enter my password. I’m just about to type it in when I hear Greg shout, “Alexa! Get your ass in here.”

  I glance over at the sound, expecting to see Greg standing at his office door, face all red and splotchy with anger, but he’s not. Through the glass walls, I spot him sitting at his desk, engrossed with whatever is on his computer screen.

  Tucking my phone into my pocket, I make my way into his office, and lean against the wall, just inside the door.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  Without even looking up from his computer, Greg signals to the chair across from him, stacked with files. “Shut the door. Sit. Where the hell have you been?”

  I don’t respond immediately. Reluctantly pulling the door shut, I step over to the chair. I pick up the stack of files, and set it on his desk, before taking a seat.

  “Don’t you ever check your voicemail?” I say, leaning back in the chair, getting comfortable. “I was running down a story. Joey Parelli was killed outside a strip club last night.”

  He looks up from the computer then, his expression blank as he scans me over. No surprise. No shock. He’s waiting for me to say something more, but I have no idea what. I’ve worked at The Local Observer for a little over five months, and still, I can’t read him.

  His lips twist downward, and he rubs his five o’clock shadow as he lets out an exasperated sigh. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” I grumble. “I’ve been up all night.”

  Greg stares at me peculiarly, as though he’s not quite sure what to make of that. I stare right back. His square jaw works hard, as though he’s ready to give me hell for something, but he’s fighting not to let it out.

  A minute ticks by. I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s a challenge. I don’t have time for a staring contest with the boss. Not today. I’ve got a soon to be serial killer to catch.

  Finally, he asks, “Why are you digging around in The Clown Maker story? It’s dead.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really? I didn’t think it was dead until they catch the killer.”

  Greg snorts, shaking his head. “There’s nothing there. No leads. No witnesses. It’s a filler piece and a goddamn waste of time. You’re better than this.”

  I open my mouth and then close it, not sure what I’m supposed to say to that. It’s not like I can tell my editor that the killer is going to strike again tonight. Then I’d have to explain how I knew that, and I can’t explain.

  The red splotches that I’d expected to see when Greg first shouted at me are beginning to spread up his face and neck. If I don’t say something soon, he is going to shut down my story, and I can’t have that. I need every second I can get to investigate if I stand a chance at catching the bastard.

  “The threes,” I blurt. “Sandra never covered the threes.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Greg asks, screwing up his nose. “What are the damned threes?”

  Jeez, he’s swearing a lot. Greg usually has a pretty foul mouth, but it rarely ever gets this bad. His face is getting redder by the second, his right hand, clenching and unclenching. I don’t know what to make of it.

  “The first victim happened on the third,” I say, keeping a careful tone, gauging his reaction. “The second was on the Thirteenth. Both have times of death around three-thirty. They were both thirty-three years old. And tomorrow is...”

  “The twenty-third,” he says, cutting me off and slamming his hands onto the desk. “Holy shit.” He shakes his head. “Holy fucking shit. You’re thinking there’s going to be another killing, aren’t you?”

  I don’t respond. I can’t. The hint I laid out is more than enough to get me in trouble with Death. No way am I going to risk confirming it.

  “Jesse,” he shouts, when I say nothing. “Get your ass in here!”

  Mere seconds pass before the door cracks open, and Jesse pokes his head into the office. “Yeah?”

  “Alexa is going to send you the recording for the Joey Parelli story. You’re taking it over, and I don’t want to hear a single fucking complaint about it.”

  “Sure, boss.” He bobs his head in agreement. “Anything else?”

  “No,” Greg says, waving him away, before focusing back on me. “You’re writing a piece about the threes. You have two hours to have it on my desk. I want to run it on the twelve o’clock podcast.”

  “Two hours?” I blink at him. “Are you kidding me? That’s nowhere near enough time to...”

  He cuts me off with a laugh. “Get it done, Alexa, or you’re going to be looking for a new job.”

  SIX

  OKAY, ALEXA. FOCUS. You’ve got this.

  I’ve got a crapload of information on the killer, or rather the killings. I was there, after all, and I have Sandra’s notes. I just need to figure out a way to use all my knowledge without making myself the prime suspect.

  So, what do I know? Turning to my computer, I open up a blank document and begin to type.

  The killer is male.

  He’s punctual. He set timers for each stage like he’d planned everything out to the second.

  So far, the victims are male and the same age. Other than that, they have nothing in common.

  Each victim was found where they died. He doesn’t move the bodies but instead stages them at the scene of the crime.

  He has an unhealthy obsession with clowns. But why the plastic mask? Easier? Quicker?

  He doesn’t speak to his victims. Both were sleeping when they died.

  He’s well dressed. Both times I saw him he was in a suit. Office job? Stockbroker?

  He apparently likes the number three. Why?

  Both bodies were reported by an anonymous caller. The killer? If so, why?

  Drawing a blank, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, blocking out the chatter around me.

  Think, Alexa. Think. What else do I know?

  He’s tallish and lean. Athletic build. He must have had a vehicle, but I didn’t see it. His face... I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to visualize it. Average. Not overly attractive, but not off-putting. Blue eyes. Scruffy jawline.

  My mind wanders to the last victim, and my heart beats a little faster. The clown mask. The blood gushing from his throat.

  My eyes snap open. It doesn’t help. My mind just won’t stop. I can still see the knife sliding across some innocent person’s throat and blood spilling out, sliding down his body. I see the mask, too. That creepy, plastic clown mask hiding the victims face.

  I’m almost thankful for that mask.

  But still... I keep seeing the victims. Smelling the blood. But it’s the memory of the killer’s laugh as the victims take their last breath that jerks me away from the thoughts. I sit up straight, shaking and shivering. No one should die like that. No one. I’m definitely not looking forward to watching it play out again tonight.

  Swallowing hard, I banish the last trace of the memory from my mind, and click on my emails, opening the one from Sandra. Just like she said, there really isn’t much there. A list of family members and contact information. Both victim’s families refused to give interview
s. Not that I blame them. If it were me, I’d want to be left alone, too.

  No witnesses, but I already knew that. Technically, I’m a witness, but it’s not like I could’ve stepped forward, though, and admitted I was on the scene, because really, how exactly was I supposed to explain that?

  Yes, I was there. I’ve also witnessed ninety-one other murders in this city. No, no, I’m not a killer. I’m a Grim Reaper. I set their souls free after death.

  Yeah, right. No one would believe me. And even if someone did, I can’t disclose my identity to the living. Another one of Death’s stupid rules.

  I scroll further, searching for the police contact, and groan when I spot the name.

  Detective Cameron Kelley.

  All he gave her was the typical not able to comment on an open investigation spiel. Go figure. I wonder if he tried bribing her, too. Information for a date. Somehow, I doubted it. Sandra is pretty, but I don’t think she’s his type. Too serious. Too authoritative. Too successful. From what I’ve seen, Cameron prefers his women to be laid back and a little sassy.

  With a sigh, I hit the print button, and then click close on the browser tab. All the details seem useless. At least, they are to me. There’s nothing there that tells me where the killer lives, or who he is. And even if there was some hidden clue in my memory, what the hell am I going to do with it?

  Holy hell. I need a plan. A solid plan. The TV shows make this detective work look so easy. It should be easy. I was there. I know how he works. I know when the next murder is going to happen.

  Maybe I can follow him when he leaves. Track him back to his home. Then what? Knock on the door? Ask him nicely to turn himself in? Make a citizen’s arrest?

  Yeah right.

  I need help. Professional help.

  My first impulse is to call Cameron. Try to tip him off without actually tipping him off. But I don’t think he would believe me. And even if he does, he’d probably haul me in for questioning. Not really a risk I can take.

  And yet... the more I think of it, tipping him off seems like the perfect solution. I can set the meetup time for a few minutes after the murder. Maybe he could catch him, arrest him right then and there. Or perhaps he’d miss the killer, and I’d be the one ending up behind bars.

  But I could stay hidden. Keep the cloaking spell in place until the arrest is made. The victim would have to remain in his body a little longer, but I don’t think he’d mind too much. Not if his killer is caught.

  Grabbing my phone, I search for an anonymous texting app and quickly download it. Setting it up takes seconds. I punch in a fake name, pick a number, and that’s it. I’m good to go.

  Snagging the printouts off of the printer under my desk, I flip through the pages until I find Cameron’s cell number. I tap on a new message, punch it in, and write the text.

  Me: I have the information you need on The Clown Maker. Meet me at 1729 Deadlock Lane, apartment 402. 3:35 am. Bring your partner. You’re not going to want to miss this.

  I hit send and stare at the screen, waiting for the delivery confirmation. As soon as it pops up, I deactivate the number, just in case these so-called anonymous apps aren’t as anonymous as they claim to be.

  Then, I turn to my computer and get to work on my article, hoping like hell that Cameron takes the message seriously.

  The article practically writes itself, and within thirty minutes, I have it printed off and on Greg’s desk. I practically run out of the office, anxious to get some sleep before my reap tonight. Any moment now, the fake high I’m feeling is going to wear off, but for the moment, the exhilaration still grows. In about thirteen hours, the Redport Police department is going to catch a serial killer, and it’s all because of me. Of course, I can’t really take credit for it, not publicly at least, but that’s okay. Just knowing I’ve helped stop a deranged killer is good enough for me.

  I make it back to my apartment in no time, and humming a little tune I fish out my keys and unlock the door. As I open the door, a hand jumps out and grabs me, hauling me inside. I squeal and struggle, surprise and sudden fear strangling me as the door slams shut.

  SEVEN

  “ALEXA, STOP STRUGGLING.”

  I freeze. That is, unmistakably, Death’s voice. My heart is slamming too hard against my ribs, and the sour taste of helpless panic fills my mouth. I turn and look up to face him, and all thoughts of sleep, of the killer, of Detective Kelley, go up in smoke.

  He’s here. Death is here, in my apartment. It’s the only thought left in my head. Death isn’t one to make house calls. He’s more of the sit on his throne and beckon for his subjects’ kind of guy.

  There are things in this world, things even the dead fear, and Death is definitely one of them. He’s a big guy, tall and solidly built, with a mess of curly light brown hair and one of those gravelly voices, low and harsh. He has a way of looking at you that makes you want to shrink and hide.

  And it’s that look that he’s leveling on me now.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper, involuntarily tugging against his hold. “Let go of me. Please.”

  Death doesn’t move, though he might have rocked back on his heels just a little. He blinks a few times, most likely registering my fear. Although Death should be feared, he doesn’t particularly like it. I learned when I first met him that as long as you do your job and stick to the rules, he much prefers being pals with his Reapers. His throat works as he swallows, and then he pulls in a breath and releases my wrist, but his expression still looks dangerous, his dark eyes glinting with barely controlled rage. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I was planning on making a sandwich, then hopefully getting some sleep,” I say. “Are you hungry? I can make you one, too.”

  For a brief moment, amusement brightens his eyes, but it doesn’t last. “No thanks,” he says and sighs, rubbing a hand roughly over his face. “Take a seat, Alexa. We need to have a chat.”

  Right. A chat. Not a social visit.

  Kicking off my shoes, I cross the small living room and set my purse and camera down on my desk with a bit of a clatter, because I’m nervous. I blame it on Death ambushing me, and not his sudden appearance in my home. My heart rate is just beginning to come down to an average level as I pad over to the couch and sit down, tucking my feet underneath my butt.

  Death sits across from me in the big recliner and leans forward, resting his elbows on his jean-clad legs, watching me, waiting patiently as I fidget. The chair takes up way too much room, and it’s a little bit of an eyesore, the old leather worn and ripped, but it’s comfy as all heck.

  “So, um...” I start, then stall, not sure what to say. “This is kind of unusual. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? What about a drink? Or chocolate? I think I have some candy bars somewhere.”

  I’m rambling, I know, but his presence is making me uneasy. I rack my brain, trying to figure out exactly what brought him here, but I’m drawing a blank. I’ve been careful. I haven’t broken the rules. I may have bent them a little but...

  Death gives me a pointed look, and lets out another sigh, this one definitely from frustration, and then, he once again asks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Well, I was planning on trying to get some sleep, but I’m thinking that’s not what you’re talking about,” I say, deciding to act innocent, because well, I am. At least, I think I am.

  His dark eyes lock on me, and they darken impossibly further. “You’re meddling with the timeline.” He says it in a way I’ve never heard him speak before, quiet and controlled, with a hint of impatience.

  I shiver. That tone is almost scarier than being ambushed at the door. Almost.

  Right, so innocent is not the right choice.

  “I am not.” My voice sounds snappy and pouty, but I don’t mean it that way. I shift on the couch, crossing my legs. “I’ve done nothing to jeopardize tonight’s reap.”

  “Oh no?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. It’s cold and
dark and a little unhinged. “What exactly do you call this?”

  With a snap of his fingers, a laptop appears. He opens it, and after a few clicks, he turns the screen to me.

  I blink at it, for a moment not knowing what I’m looking at because I’m in shock. Death, the man that insists on communicating via handwritten letters, has a laptop. And he knows how to use it.

  But then my eyes focus, and I hear the podcast, and my entire body stiffens.

  Oh, no.

  No. No. No.

  My stomach lurches.

  He’s here about the article? Crap. This isn’t good.

  How could he already know about that? The time on the laptop says it’s 12:18. The story only just went live, and he was already here when I got home. Someone must have told him.

  “Kristin was concerned with your questions,” he says, as though reading my mind. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you since she approached me this morning.”

  To say Death was unhappy would be an understatement. I probably should have known he wouldn’t be pleased by the story, but I never imagined he’d be so... angry. I also should have guessed Kristin would step in and say something. But in my defense, I was a little distracted.

  “You’ve been watching me?” I ask hesitantly. “Like following me around?”

  “I watch all my Reapers,” he replies, his gaze leaving me and settling on the screen just as the newscaster hints that The Clown Maker will kill again tonight.

  “It’s just a story,” I mutter as the video clip ends. “A fabricated tale to sell newspapers.”

  “There’s nothing fabricated about it,” he says, slapping the laptop closed. “Absolutely nothing. You used insider knowledge to advance your career. A career that you don’t even need. In the human world, you could go to jail for a stunt like this.”

  I snort. “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? This isn’t the stock markets, it’s news. News is news. Any reporter would have done the same thing I did.”