Cornell called me at 5:05 p.m. “I’m changing my password. Did you get what you need?”
“For now. But I have to ask you a few more questions.”
I heard him swallow. “Go ahead.”
“The night she was killed, Vanessa was going out with three women— Traci, Meredith, and Robyn. Do you know them?”
“Sort of. We hung out together a few times. What are you getting at?”
“Do you think any of them could be impersonating Vanessa online?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t really know. Meredith, maybe. They were pretty close. But I still don’t think she would have told her—I mean, you read everything, right?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve seen almost everything, and I can keep my mouth shut about it all. Can I contact these women?”
“Uh, I guess . . . what are you going to say?”
“Just some general questions about that night. And maybe about you.”
Long pause. “What about me?”
“If they’ve been in contact with you. I still think it’s more likely that someone is playing ‘Let’s Pretend.’ If that’s what’s going on, a straight question might shake loose an answer.” It had worked for me before. Most people aren’t great at lying, unless they’re complete sociopaths. And years as a reporter and a P.I. had made me reasonably good at picking up on inconsistencies, even if I wasn’t psychic like Rachel.
“I just don’t think that’s what’s going on. It just—sounds like Vanessa.” He took a deep breath. “But okay, sure. Go ahead. Just—be careful, all right?”
“Absolutely.” I looked at Rachel. She was sitting next to me, listening. “One more question?” I felt like Lieutenant Columbo.
“Fine.”
“When I met you today, you were limping on your left foot. How did that happen?”
“Wh-what?” He was silent for a moment, and then he laughed. “I sprained my ankle playing softball last week. It’s getting better.”
I still wondered why he hadn’t mentioned that his girlfriend had been murdered by Leftie—as Sharpe called him. But this wasn’t the right time to push. “Okay, thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
We hung up. I looked at Rachel. “Well?”
She slugged my shoulder. “You know I can’t pick up anything over the phone! Facetime, maybe, but . . .” She scooted her chair away. “Maybe he’s telling the truth. People get hurt all the time, and with only two legs, it’s 50-50 that he’d injure the foot that this guy seemed to like breaking.”
“Yeah.” I wondered why the killer fixated on that. But better minds that mine had probably probed that. Sharpe might know their theories, but she wouldn’t be happy if I called her now. I hoped she was home fixing dinner—or at least at her desk typing out reports.
Speaking of dinner—“Let me send a few emails, and then I’ll start the pasta.”
My phone buzzed at 2:37 a.m. Rachel kicked me as I rolled over. “Let it go to voice mail.”
I blinked, trying to focus my eyes. Sharpe. “Just a—” I clicked the button. “Hi, detective! I was just dreaming about you.”
“Shut up.” Her voice was deadly. “There’s another Leftie murder.”
Hell. I rolled over and planted my feet on the floor. “Who—what—where?” My feet searched for their slippers.
“It’s an ongoing crime scene. Don’t come down here—not that I’m telling you where it is. But you’re going to get a call tomorrow morning. Better wake up early.” She hung up.
“What?” Rachel sat up. “Who were you dreaming about? It better not be—”
“That was a joke.” I staggered from the bed. “Another Left Foot murder.”
“Wait, huh?” She threw the covers off. “The last one was, what, two years ago?”
Yeah. “And now, right after Vanessa Scott comes back from the dead to talk to her ex-boyfriend . . .” I shuddered. “Why can’t serial killers keep normal business hours? It’s not like they’re vampires. Okay, that makes no sense, but still . . .”
I splashed some cold water over my face in the kitchen, grabbed a Coke, and headed for my computer.
The early news reports were sparse. No screaming headlines, just a few brief items about the murder of a body found next to a dumpster. Left ankle broken. #leftiereturns was already trending on Twitter.
Damn it. I swigged my Coke. Then I went onto Facebook.
Cornell had changed his password. I didn’t blame him. But I’d sent Vanessa a friend request.
And she’d accepted. Whoever she was.
I sent a message: “Who are you?” I didn’t expect a fast response, but I waited, tapping my foot on the floor.
But two minutes later: “I’m Vanessa. Who are you?”
Me:Tom Jurgen. You accepted my friend request.
Vanessa:Why are you talking to me?
Me:I’m a private detective. Justin Cornell hired me.
Vanessa:Why?
Me:Because Vanessa Scott died two years ago. You can’t be her.
Vanessa:It hurt.
Me:Who killed you?
Vanessa:I don’t know.
Me:Vanessa was murdered by the Left-Foot Killer. And there’s been another murder tonight.
I waited ten minutes. No more responses. I sent my phone number. Maybe Traci would see it and contact me.
Rachel came into the office in a T-shirt and panties. “Should I just make coffee?”
“No.” I couldn’t think of anything to do right now. “I’m going back to bed.”
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