When Randolph didn't respond, Steve stood, as if to leave. The game of chicken was Mike's idea. With as arrogant as the reporter was, Steve thought he was pressing his luck, pretending to walk away. To his surprise, he finally saw a crack in his opponent's façade.
"What's the rush, sit down and have another drink."
Steve walked over to the bar and got Randolph a refill. He came back and sat down. When he did, there was single sheet of folded typing paper on the table. He went to unfold it and Randolph slapped his hand on top, attracting the attention of the other patrons of the bar.
"Not yet, I need a little something from you." Randolph's voice was a whisper.
"Pam Woodward died from a fall down the steps, Todd Walters' steps."
"Intentional?"
Steve shook his head and folded his arms across his chest, "Let me see what's on the paper."
Randolph removed his hand. Steve unfolded the paper carefully by one corner and laid it flat on the table. Neatly typed in the center was a cryptic message of eight words.
Powell Line Roundabout. A gift for my love.
The first thought that went through his head was of Lenny's original profile. "When did you get this?"
"It was delivered to my house the night of the first murder. I wasn't going to follow up on it in the middle of the night, but I figured, what did I have to lose but a few hours sleep."
"You've been in contact with the killer the whole time?" Steve was incredulous. "Why didn't you come forward with this?"
Randolph laughed, "Are you really that young and naïve? It was the scoop of the year."
"Are you really that stupid and self-serving? Withholding evidence is a crime, Mr. Randolph. There could be trace on the paper. It might have helped us catch this person before they killed again."
The reporter regained his bravado as he reached over to retrieve the paper, Steve was faster and pocketed the document.
"Hey…"
"Evidence, Mr. Randolph."
"You'll never see the others."
"That may be, but I have what I need and you'll have a subpoena by noon tomorrow. I think we're done."
"What about the rest of the information? You said you would talk."
"Oh, we will talk, but it will be on the record and at Bryant Street. And I believe I told you I knew things, not that I would tell you about them."
"You're gonna regret this, Keller. I will roast you alive in the paper."
"I think that'll be tough from San Quentin." Steve got up and walked out of the bar with a satisfied smile on his face. He couldn't quite figure out why Randolph had incriminated himself, but he really didn't care.
00000
Steve drove back to Bryant Street even though it was after 8 pm. When he got out of the car, he wasn't surprised to see the light on in Mike's office. He dropped the letter off at the lab and took the stairs up to the bull pen.
Mike saw Steve come in and assumed by the smile on his face his trip to the bar had been a success.
"You really gotta tell me where you keep the crystal ball. How did you know?" Steve sat heavily in the chair across from Mike's desk.
"The killer contacted him?"
"Yep, just like you thought. Sent him timely little messages directing him to the bodies." Steve handed Mike a scrap of paper with the eight words copied in his own untidy scrawl.
He smiled and read the note. "Did you get a hold of the originals?"
"Just the first one. I already took it down to the lab. It's going to take at least 24 hours for prints to develop after the lab soaks the paper in ninhydrin, if there are even any on there. I told Randolph to expect us to come calling for the balance of the notes and an invitation to a little tete-a-tete here at Bryant Street."
Mike stood up and slapped Steve on the shoulder. "You did good, buddy boy."
"Thanks, I think. He threatened to eviscerate me on the front page. The thing I can't figure out is why he would be willing to provide such self-damning evidence."
"Who knows, maybe he feels guilty or maybe he knows more than he's letting onto and feels vulnerable. We can figure that out once we wrap this up."
They sat several moments in silence. Mike spoke first. "So how do you think this all fits together? From the note, I have to assume that Lenny's take on the first three kills was on point. Was Walters' merely capitalizing on Kohler's death? And what about Pam? Was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
Steve picked up the narrative. "That doesn't explain the tarps and the evidence inside them at Walters' studio or the blood and bleach in the dark room. Could it be two people working together with different end games? Could our mystery man…"
"Or woman."
"Or woman," Steve smirked, "have dumped the evidence after Walters died to cover his or her tracks?"
Mike took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Honestly, I don't think we are going to know that until we catch him."
"Or her."
It was Mike's turn to smirk. "Or her. In the meantime, I think we have to start looking at Lizzy and people around her again. We might even want to keep eyes on her until we catch the person." Mike was careful to keep his term gender neutral. "She is still the only common denominator. But not tonight." Mike walked over and grabbed his coat and hat. "Let's get out of here."
00000
Lizzy walked home after class ended at 4:15. She stopped at her mailbox and opened the compartment, shoving the envelopes in her purse before walking up the stairs. She unlocked the door and the security hasp the cops had attached to it. She really needed to get a locksmith and take care of the jury-rigged security arrangement, but honestly didn't see the point. More than likely she was going to have to move at the end of the month. That wouldn't be a pleasant discussion to have with Nonna.
She dropped her bags and locked the door, glad to be alone in a space she could call her own, no matter how temporary the arrangement. Before the phone had a chance to disturb her solitude, she took it off the hook and buried it under a couch cushion.
The refrigerator called her name and she drifted over and opened the door, staring into the cool glowing void. Looked like it was going to be another lean night. She slammed it shut in disgust and searched the cupboards, turning up a can of tomato soup and some stale saltines. It would have to do. She opened the cabinet over the fridge to see what was left of Pam's liquor stash. The only thing that looked halfway appealing was a bottle of tequila left over from Cinco de Mayo a semester ago.
Not bothering with a glass, Lizzy took a swig directly from the bottle. A little numbness would go a long way to helping her get through tonight. She dumped the soup in a saucepan and munched on the mealy crackers while it warmed on the stove, washing them down with hits of the pungent Mexican spirit. When the soup was finally hot enough to consume, she was already comfortably buzzed.
Lizzy looked at the bottle. She knew drinking any more at this point would be a mistake, but she took a final swig before capping the bottle and setting it on the counter. Maybe she would actually get some sleep tonight. Flopping down on the couch she grabbed her purse and retrieved the mail, dropping most of it directly in the trash. A postcard from Kenya, addressed to her late roommate, stopped her short. It was from Pam's parents and had the same impersonal tone she had observed when she met them.
What the hell, she thought to herself as she tore the card up into small pieced and dumped it on the coffee table. The scrap of paper with Steve's home phone number was sitting next to the pile of brightly colored paper shards. She picked it up and fingered the card, toying with the idea of calling the charming detective.
It was the last the thought Lizzy had until she awoke several hours later to the sound of someone pounding on the door.
00000
Steve stopped by his desk and grabbed his notebook and the keys to the LTD.
"You drive Mike, I'm gonna need my car in the morning for the funeral."
He dropped the keys in Mike hand and led the way out to the lot.
They drove home in silence. Steve reminded Mike he wouldn't be in until noon or better the next day as he made his goodbye. Climbing the steps to his apartment, Mike's words about focusing on Lizzy weighed on his mind. He looked at the clock, it was just about nine pm. He tossed his jacket on the couch and picked up the phone, flipping through the pages of his notebook until he found the number.
He dialed multiple times over the next hour, finally resorting to calling the phone company. The news that the phone was more than likely off the hook did not rest well with him. He picked up his keys and jacket and jogged down to his car. He would rather be embarrassed by an unnecessary visit than live with a lifetime of regret.
00000
The young man sat in his car. Although the evening was chilly, he didn't feel the effects of the weather. It was finally his time, their time. He'd overcome all the obstacles. The people who had hurt or distracted her were gone, presented as tokens of love for his Mona Lisa. Without all the human clutter in her life, she would finally love him for who and what he really was, her destiny.
Serendipity had even played its part in this moment. Lizzy's selfish, tramp of a roommate eliminated by that idiot Walters and Walters himself dead because of his own stupid panic when the cops turned up. It was all so easy when you were smarter than the rest of the sheep inhabiting San Francisco, including the police.
Fooling Walters had been a no brainer. After a few passionate, drug filled encounters, it was easy to convince Todd that getting rid of Kohler, Kearns and Brooks was the key to his financial future. After a particularly lusty evening and several bottles of wine, they laughed about posing the bodies like works of art and generated an extensive list of perfect locations. It was too bad they would go unused.
Enticing the victims to the studio was effortless. The promise of a bigger paycheck, a pre-show meeting and a fat modeling commission was all it took to lure them to Todd's dingy workspace. He took out his keys and removed the one to the studio from his ring. Rolling down the window, he pitched it toward the storm drain across the street. The key bounced once and slid through the grate. Easy. Dumping the evidence in the alley after Todd's death insured that the police wouldn't look any further.
He smiled, the phantom rush of firing the .22 into the heads of his victims giving him chills. He'd done it carefully to avoid damaging the human media for their works of art. It was Walters' idea. He might have been a total waste of life, but he sure knew his anatomy. He reveled in the perfection of the public spectacles he and Todd created.
Walters always thought it was about the money, and he'd lost it when Pam wouldn't turn over the pictures and Campbell threatened to expose him as a fraud. But it all worked out in the end. Two less complications in Lizzy's life. The egotistical art teacher never suspected the real purpose of the kills and neither did the ass from the newspaper. He was just another tool, used to announce the gifts he left for his lady love. The plot would have meant nothing if the whole city wasn't aware of the depth of his devotion.
But the plan had gone sideways. After embracing the tease in the first note, Joe Randolph had fallen down on the job. He'd acted on the information for his own selfish benefit but never shared the contents of the subsequent letters. Even a phone call hadn't remedied the problem, but he had a special plan to rectify that situation.
He was just about to make his grand entrance when a Porsche pulled up in front of the apartment. The handsome cop who'd made a nuisance of himself for the past week jumped out and ran up the stairs.
This would not work at all.