“I know. It is what it is.”
“Only for now. Not forever. When things get bad, remember that. And, listen, don’t forget to keep your wits about you.” He reemphasized everything he’d warned her of yesterday. “If you sense that something’s off, anything out of the ordinary, call me immediately.”
“I promise.”
“If you can’t reach me, call Mitch.”
“Cross my heart.”
“In fact, call me when school lets out.”
“Seriously, Dad?”
“Just to check in. Okay?”
“Okay! Jeez.”
That sounded like a spoiled little shit, but he let it go and told her goodbye. By then the coffee was ready. Beth reappeared looking restored and dressed similarly to how she’d been when they’d met in the bar.
The jeans and white t-shirt stirred him now even more than they had then, because now he knew what she looked like out of them. That made it difficult to cool his jets, as he’d resolved to do only fifteen minutes earlier.
He passed her a mug of coffee. She inhaled the aroma. “Ahhh. Thanks.”
“I didn’t really get to tell you last night how sorry I am about Longren.”
“Your actions spoke louder than words,” she said softly.
Damn. That look. Did she practice it?
When he didn’t say anything, she glanced around the room. “I think that being here, in a totally different environment and having distance from the reality of his death, has blunted the pain somewhat.”
“Which leads me to the inevitable question, Beth. Are you going back, or staying on?”
“Staying on here? You mean past Thursday?” She put her hand to her cheek. “Oh God. That’s tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“Well, of course I’m staying on. Even if I were missing an elaborate funeral, Max would be furious if I went back for it. He practically ordered me to stay and see this through, with or without the moon aspect. The last assignment he gave me was to get the story, get… get his Emmy.”
John was more relieved than he let on. “Okay then, there’s a lot to talk about that you don’t know yet.”
They ate a quick breakfast of cereal and fresh fruit, then sat at their computers, where he informed her of his conversation with Victor Wallace.
“I wasn’t snooping into your emails, I swear. It just popped up as I was shutting down. I saw his name.”
“What did he want?”
He reached for a notepad and pen. After writing down all the names, and bringing her attention to the double letters, he told her what the professor had hypothesized. “He confessed to being no expert, but he gave me a crash course.”
Gauging his expression, she said, “You don’t seem to give it much credence.”
“Do you?”
“Not personally, but devotees would. I had a friend in college who added a silent letter to her name only because it would change her core number to one she thought was more advantageous.”
“People take it that seriously?”
“Yes. People all over the world.”
“Okay. I’m not ready to dismiss anything. I’ll pass this along to the others, too. Maybe numerology will be a bingo for one of them.”
“What else?” she asked. “You said there was a lot to talk about.”
“This is kind of off the wall, but here goes. Last night, a new thought occurred to me. I massaged it for a while, and eventually developed a theory around it, which I ran past Mitch.”
“And?”
“Well, he didn’t laugh at it. At least not out loud. He was working and had to end the call on the run, so I’m not sure he fully digested it.”
“John, what?”
“All of us—you, me, the other detectives—have been looking for a common trait among the victims. Can’t find one. Nothing. Nada. So, what if it’s not the victims who have a common trait. What if it’s the perps?”
“Perps plural?”
“Perps plural.”
“How did you arrive at that?”