“But?”
“But maybe we’ve been looking for the common thread in the wrong place.” He then advanced his theory.
When he finished, she whooshed. “Wow. Four crimes, four culprits, but one motive whose underpinnings are Roman mythology and mysticism.”
“Does it have legs?”
“Shaky ones, John. Like earthquake shaky.”
“I admire your candor.”
“It’s waaaay out there.”
“I know. I also know it’s asking a lot, but could you go back to Larissa’s family one more time? Ask about her friends, a relative, anybody in her realm who was into numerology or the paranormal of any stripe. Anyone who might, just might, surf the dark web in search of like-minded people. That person may not be guilty of anything, but he or she could play on the same playground as the men who are, and could point us toward it.”
“John, I’d help, but I’m working a case where either parent could’ve drowned their two-month-old baby girl in her little pink bathtub. They’re lying to cover for each other, and there’s a mistress in the mix. I have a lot on my plate.”
“I get it.”
“Larissa Whitmore’s disappearance is a cold case.”
“I understand the pecking order, Gayle. I do. But just for a nanosecond pretend that Patrick Dobbs didn’t pitch Larissa into the Gulf. Some other dude did.”
“I’m inclined to agree. But my boss, and his boss, and the prosecutor believe Dobbs was the dude. If I got all of them in a room and started talking about a secret society of men with hard-ons for Luna, an ancient Roman moon goddess, who are stealing girls with double letters in their names, possibly for human sacrifices, and conducting their meetings on the dark web, they would probably demote me to meter maid.”
She sighed again. “I want to help you, John, truly I do. But you know the politics of police departments. Sometimes you gotta go with the flow. I’ve got three boys to educate.”
“I get that, too,” he said, thinking of the art school Molly had her heart set on. But he also thought about the one time he’d gone with the flow, and look how that had turned out. Here they were, still after Crissy Mellin’s abductor.
“Thanks, Gayle. You’ve been patient with me, and I appreciate your time and attention. Let’s hope this whole blood moon thing is nothing more than an inexplicable coincidence.”
“Goes without saying.”
They ended the call by wishing each other good luck. He hadn’t heard Beth as she’d moved up behind his chair, but he sensed her there and turned around. He took one look at her face and said, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s dreadful.”
She recounted her conversation with Richard, and finished by saying, “It’ll be devastating to Max’s legacy, and death to my career.”
“So do what you’ve advised me to do. Skip the chain of command. Go to the person up one rung from Brady and tell him or her of the pending disaster.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“You’ve got a week to set things straight.”
She huffed a humorless laugh. “Actually, I don’t. That was the second news bulletin Richard had for me. It seems that after Max’s body was taken away, the paperwork he’d been working on was cleared off his desk and somehow—Richard doesn’t know how—it got to Brady.
“In his hen scratching fashion, Max had written down notes on the possible connection between November 2022’s blood moon and Crissy Mellin’s disappearance. He’d expanded on everything he and I had talked about. Someone—Richard doesn’t know who—brought to Brady’s attention that tomorrow night there will be the first blood moon since that one.
“Brady thought it would be an ideal tie-in, a great ‘gimmick’ for the narrator to mention that at the top of the program. So, rather than waiting to air the episode next week as scheduled, they’ve moved it to tomorrow night. To coincide with the blood moon.”
Chapter 28
Upon John’s recommendation, Beth retreated to the bedroom to call one of the network executives who had been as close a friend as Max had had. She was told that he was out. Although she impressed on his assistant how important it was that he call her back, Beth had little confidence in the woman’s smoothly spoken promise to pass along the request.
Then, as much as Max would hate it, and hate her for even thinking of it, she called the production company for which his son worked and asked for him. Being Max’s only blood relative, he would wield more influence over the network than she. She hoped to convince him to intervene.
She identified herself to his assistant and was put on hold. When the assistant returned, she said, “He’s unavailable, Ms. Collins, but he did ask me to give you a message. He extends you his condolences, but wants to hear none you might wish to extend him.”
That renunciation discouraged her from reaching out to any of Max’s ex-wives. She hadn’t heard back from Richard, but it was doubtful he would have the courage to approach Winston Brady on her behalf. Asking anyone else affiliated with the show to take up her banner would be pointless. She knew how these things worked. Whenever there was a shake-up in personnel, even a close ally would suddenly become a competitor.
She returned to the main room and sat down beside John, who was scrolling through what she now recognized as Crissy Mellin’s case file. “Looking for anything in particular?”
“I just checked Billy Oliver’s autopsy report to see if a tattoo had been noted. None was.”
“Did you ever ask Carla if Crissy had one?”
“Yes. She said no. It’s in my notes of the first interview Mitch and I had with her when she provided us a detailed physical description of Crissy.”
“Some people frown on ink, so she might not have wanted you to know about Crissy’s. I’ll call her and ask again.”
“Better idea,” he said. “Let’s ask her in person. We need to bring her up to date on several things.”
Beth checked her watch. “She’ll be at work.”
“Good. She has to let us in and can’t kick us out.”