“You said you’d help. You said—”
“I got your information,” Chilcoate cut him off.
“Damn it, that’s not it.” He made an impatient motion and headed toward a narrow stairway. “Come on. I’ve got everything downstairs.”
He led Nate into a dusty basement that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades, except for the nearly hidden cameras. Then he walked to the back wall and pushed a button. A panel slid open and a private arsenal of computers, printers, wifi systems, monitors, and spy-type equipment was revealed. It looked like some kind of command center for spe-410 Lisa Jackson
cial ops. Jimi Hendrix was playing “All Along the Watchtower” from hidden speakers.
“You’ve never seen this,” Chilcoate reminded him, as he motioned to his private area. “MacGregor said you were cool and I trust him.”
“I was never here.”
Chilcoate nodded curtly.
“There’s not a lot,” Chilcoate admitted, “but I think it’s important. A writer at the Mountain Re- porter received some kind of communication from the killer; Manny Douglas has already written a story and scanned copies of the letters, then sent everything to himself via e-mail.”
“You hacked into the newspaper’s computer?”
Chilcoate shook his head. “No questions.”
“Fine.”
“And you asked about Brady Long and his sister. I found out she left Seattle on a plane bound for San Francisco.”
“No. She’s in an institution.”
“Not anymore.”
“But she’s mute. Hasn’t said a word in fifteen years. How would she—?”
Chilcoate held up both hands. “I’m just tellin’ ya. I’ve got her itinerary. She bought a ticket. Headed to the city.”
“How? What does that mean?”
“You tell me.” Chilcoate gazed at him steadily.
“You think she’s a part of this?” Santana asked incredulously. There was a surreal quality to the equipment in the windowless basement room, lights glowing, all backdropped by Jimi’s guitar licks.
“Don’t know.” Chilcoate wagged his head back and forth. “But it’s interesting. I’m going to check
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into her stay at Mountain View. So far, it doesn’t seem that she ever left before.”
“But she may have had visitors?”
“And phone calls.” He reached to his desk and pulled some papers from a printer. “Here’s what I got from the newspaper files.” He handed the sheaf to Santana. “These don’t leave the premises, so I hope you’re good at memorization.”
Santana grunted, already lost in the article. The story, with a byline crediting Manny Douglas, was all about how Star-Crossed had contacted Douglas by sending him letters that were supposedly duplicates of those found by the police. According to Douglas’s article, Star-Crossed, using the initials of the women he killed, was sending a message. The last one being:
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I O N ’
H