“Sounds good. Let me clean up my desk first.” I’ve got papers everywhere, my notebook open. Joe walks in and peruses my work, runs a finger over a sketch of Mrs. Bradley.

“What’s with all the drawings?”

“I like to doodle. Helps me think.” Seems to me he asked me that the last time we worked together.

Noise comes from the squad room, and we head out in the hall to investigate. Chase is leading a man toward the interview rooms. Joe and I follow.

Chase meets us in the hall, having deposited the man inside. “Who’s that?” I ask.

“I found him lurking around Mrs. Bradley’s house.”

“And you were there why?”

He shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drive by. I’ve been doing that on occasion,” he adds quietly.

“So who is he?”

“You want to talk to him with me?”

“Sure.” I glance at Joe.

“I’ll let you two handle it, unless you need me.”

“We’ve got it,” I say.

The man is thirty-something, shaved head, skinny jeans, and a leather jacket. He slouches in his chair as though we’re a big pain in his ass.

I introduce myself and we sit. “And you are?”

“Brian Fleck.”

Chase says, “I found Mr. Fleck standing across the street from the Bradley residence. Then I saw him on her porch, looking in the windows.”

“I told you I was trying to contact Mrs. Bradley.”

“For what purpose?” I ask.

“Look, I didn’t do anything illegal, okay? I agreed to come in and talk so we can clear this up.”

“All right. Good deal. So answer the question.”

He sits up and purses his lips. “I would like to ask Mrs. Bradley if she’d be interested in collaborating on a book.”

“You’re a writer then?”

He sets his backpack on the floor and fishes out his wallet, hands me a business card. It’s decorated with red splotches that are supposed to look like blood. He apparently writes for a crime e-magazine.

“Yes. I write articles on current crimes and old interesting cases. But I think Mrs. Bradley’s story warrants a book, and I thought I’d be a good candidate to write it.”

“Okay.” I glance at Chase.

“He said he’s been in the area for a couple of weeks.”

“Have you called Mrs. Bradley?” I ask.

“I tried a couple of times, but she hasn’t answered. That’s why I’ve been trying to catch her at home.”

Chase huffs out a breath. “Haven’t been harassing her, have you?”

“No, of course not.”

“She might not see it that way,” I say.

He leans toward us, the eager reporter. “Someone’s going to write a book about her, and I think I’m the best person to do that. I feel for the woman. She’s been through hell—”

“You got that right,” Chase says.