Devil in the Deadline Read Online Free PDF Page B

later, I had six pages of details I could reference no matter how long the search stretched on. I saved it as “Craven 1,” and sent it to the printer. Staring at the Telegraph ’s home page for a minute, I added a copy of that morning’s write-up to the printer queue and stood to go grab them. Retrieving a file folder from the back of my bottom drawer, I named it for my favorite nightmare director, too, and stashed the papers inside.
    Checking the clock, I deemed it late enough for normal people to be awake and grabbed the phone, dialing my friend Emily’s Dallas cell number.
    â€œAny wedding bells yet?” she drawled by way of hello.
    â€œOh, go find your own wedding bells, Doctor Sansom,” I laughed. Em had been a good friend since forever. Lucky for me, she was also a top-of-her-field criminal psychologist who didn’t mind helping me out with a tangled story here and there. As long as I didn’t quote her, or ask too much.
    â€œYou have to be kidding,” she said. “Hasn’t it been almost a year since he moved up there? What the heck are you waiting for, doll?”
    Em had been there for me when I left Kyle in the terminal at DFW International so many years ago, heading to Syracuse to chase my dreams of covering the White House. Throwing psychology to the wind, she’d told me if it was meant to be, we’d find our way back to each other.
    She believed we had. I didn’t want to talk about it.
    â€œJust making sure I know what I want,” I said. “Isn’t the shrink in you proud of me for not jumping into anything serious?”
    She sighed. “But the romantic in me wants to live vicariously through you. Forever love, fate—all that drivel I’m not supposed to believe in.”
    â€œNo Mister Rights in your neck of the woods these days?”
    â€œGirl, I can’t even find a Mister Okay For Tonight,” she said. “I’m thinking I may have to lower my standards. But I suspect you didn’t call to talk about my love life. And since you say you didn’t call to talk about yours, what’s up?”
    â€œI’m covering a murder this morning,” I said, my voice quavering in the middle of the statement. “One unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I was hoping I could bounce a couple things off you. Just want to know if you think I’m on the right track.”
    â€œHit me.”
    I gave her the rundown of the scene, a few sharp intakes of breath her only reply until I paused to make sure the coast was clear before I told her about Mr. Brooklyn Baseball. Em cleared her throat as I scanned nearby corners for spiky black hair. Shelby’s a good lurker.
    â€œAs your friend, I feel the need to ask if you’ve talked to anyone about this,” Emily said. “Like, a professional anyone. That’s a powerful thing to see.”
    â€œI’m talking to you,” I said.
    â€œThen allow me to put on my shrink hat and ask you how that made you feel, Nicey?”
    â€œScared shitless. And sick to my stomach. It also made me want to help.”
    â€œHelp who?”
    â€œThe guys at the PD who are trying to catch this nutball.” I sighed. “Anyone who loved this woman. What if this is just the beginning? If someone can hack one woman up, what’s to keep them from doing it again?”
    â€œThat, in my professional opinion, is a perfectly normal response for you,” she said. “You are motivated first by your do-gooder instinct, and second by ambition, my friend. Helping your cops with this will fulfill two major needs for you. It sounds like you’re dealing fine, but if you find yourself needing to talk, call me. Now, about this crime scene: I’ve never been called in to help with a bonafide serial killer, but there’s a possibility you’ve got yourself one. There’s also a possibility this was a ritual