Her Last Word
Page 44

“Yes. You worked with the police during the months after she went missing. You offered your services to the police.”
“I did.” She reaches for the deck of tarot cards and begins to shuffle.
“What was it that prompted you to call the police?” Madame Solinsky isn’t the only psychic who called the police, but she garnered the most airtime from local television. Steven Marcus has interviewed her four times.
“I knew she was gone, and I had to tell the police.”
“You had gruesome theories about her fate.”
Madame lays out four cards facedown one by one in a spread resembling a cross. “In my dreams I see a man with two faces.”
“Two?” The clown mask was reported to the media.
“Two.”
“But the man is not important now. It’s Gina who’s beckoning me. She looks worried.” Madame taps a ringed finger on the first card and then slowly, with the flourish of a performer, turns it over with a snap. “The Nine of Wands.”
The medium wafts her hand over the card, as if conjuring the truth from the ether. “Her spirit is strong, but she needs the police to find her so that you will know peace.”
“Me?”
“Yes. She’s worried about you.”
That churns the guilt I always carry. “How did Gina die?” I paid fifty bucks before the Madame would talk to me. I’m not expecting the smoking gun, but I want to see how far she will take this show.
“She was stabbed.” Madame presses ringed fingers to the base of her neck. “She died very quickly.”
“You’ve also said she died in a dark room and in a fire.”
“I can only report what I see. Sometimes a spirit gets confused.” Madame turns over the second card and studies it. “The Hanged Man. Time to reflect. Some of the knife wounds were near her throat.”
She turns over the third card, which portrays a man and woman embracing. The card is upside down. “The Lovers card in reverse. Betrayal and loss.”
I have to hand it to her. She puts on a good show.
Madame waves bent fingers over the three cards and then turns over a fourth. It is a castle being struck by lightning. “This is the Tower. Turmoil. You’re facing a great upheaval in your life.”
I close my notebook. The fifty bucks I’ve spent here could have gone toward a week’s worth of pizzas. “Thank you for your time, Madame.”
As I rise, Madame looks up, her gaze spearing me. “The killer knows what you’re doing. And he doesn’t like it. Beware.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Monday, March 19, 2018; 5:00 p.m.
Kaitlin could stand, and though she couldn’t cross the room quickly, it was now possible. Her limited mobility was frustrating, but she remained focused on the progress she’d made.
Now sitting up in bed, propped on pillows, she studied the list of people she’d yet to interview. At the top of the list was Steven Marcus, the reporter who covered Gina’s story. He was no longer with the paper but now operated a website and wrote freelance articles dedicated to solving cold cases. According to her research, his reporting had helped police across the country solve a dozen different crimes.
His last piece on Gina had appeared four years ago at the ten-year anniversary. Of all the reporters, he was the most prolific. Several of his articles on Gina had won literary awards.
With her laptop beside her and a pad and pencil close by, she dialed his number. He picked up on the third ring.
“Steven Marcus.” His voice was deep and clear.
She sat a little straighter. “Mr. Marcus, this is Kaitlin Roe. I am—”
“I know who you are,” he said. In the background a chair squeaked as if he had leaned forward. “Talk about a voice from the past. I don’t know how many times I left you messages when I was writing those earlier articles on Gina. You never called back.”
“I know.” Maybe an apology was warranted, but she couldn’t bring herself.
“And then you dropped off the radar. Where’d you go?”
“Texas, but I’m back in Richmond now.”
“So why the call?” Curiosity vibrated in the tone.
“I’m making a podcast about Gina’s disappearance. I’m hoping to draw attention back to her case.”
“Good luck. The more time passes, the harder it gets for people to care.”
“I’m hoping that’ll change. I’ve managed to stir the pot some, and it might lead to progress in the case.”
A dog barked in the background. “What kind of progress?”
“I can’t say right now.”
“You don’t return my calls whenever I did a story on Gina, but you want background from me now.”
“Yes. Shoe’s on the other foot now.”
Soft laughter rumbled through the phone. “You’ve got stones, Kaitlin.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“It’s been fourteen years. I pitched a cold case article idea on her a few months ago and received no bites.”
“Why’re you still writing about her?” Kaitlin asked.
“Gina Mason had all the ingredients of a perfect life. Pretty. Smart. Ambitious. And then she was gone. When I first covered her, she was just another tragedy. But I never could forget her. When beautiful youth is ruined, it’s gripping. James Dean. Marilyn Monroe. Princess Diana. People still talk about them. I’d hoped to elevate Gina to that higher level.”
“Why?”
“I could ask you the same. Why do you suddenly care? You’ve been MIA for fourteen years.”
She decided to be candid. “I let her down,” she said. “I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most.”
Silence hung between them. “A lot of people would agree with you.”
“I know.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I’d like to interview you. You covered her more than anyone. You know as much as the cops do.”
The dog’s bark blended with the laughter of children. “That’s true. Perhaps more. Though I bet you’ve scored interviews I couldn’t because of your inside track.”
“The last thing I feel like is an insider.”
“You were at ground zero. You saw the crime happen. Doesn’t get any more inside than that.”
“I’ll share if you share,” she said.
More silence and finally, “Sure, I’ll work with you. Right now, I’m on deadline. Let’s meet on Saturday?”
She felt her stitches pull as she shifted. “Sure. That actually would be perfect.”
“I can reach you at this number?” Marcus asked.
“Yes.”
“Looking forward to working with you, Kaitlin.”
“Me, too.”
She ended the call and lay back against the pillows. She felt more confident she would be able to travel with the police on Friday and see Marcus the following day. She had no choice. She might even have real news to share with Marcus.
A knock on her door had her closing her laptop. Anxious to leave the hospital, she was in no mood for a visitor, or worse a nurse poking and prodding her.
“Come in.”
Susan Saunders, her boss, poked her head around the door. She carried with her a vase full of white tulips and a grin. Her thick stock of gray hair was tied back with a headband, and she wore a black blousy dress, clogs, and a mixture of thin bracelets. “Good, you’re up. The nurses weren’t sure if you were awake.”