Aghast, Kelly stared at Gabriel. “You can’t print that story. It sounds like Sesame Street after the Mansons have moved in.”

“It will sell papers. And ad space.” He lifted a pen and his notebook and began to issue orders. “Peter, I need you to keep digging on Dr. Abbott. Also, assign a reporter to gather information for me on these deaths.” He ripped out the page where he’d scribbled the names Erin had read aloud to Sylvie. Gabriel handed Peter the list. “Pull their obituaries, too.”

“I’ll have it by tomorrow.” Peter studied the list of names. “Who’s our police contact?”

“Don’t have one. The police weren’t interested in Dr. Abbott’s theory,” Gabriel mumbled. He had been dreading this part of the conversation.

Peter looked up sharply. “I don’t do tabloid. We don’t do tabloid. That’s Mirren’s shtick.”

“I wouldn’t besmirch your ethics, Peter,” Gabriel said soothingly. “I overheard her explanation to the NOPD. It didn’t sound like fiction to me. Today, she and I did a little investigating. I found enough to know there’s a story here. One the Chronicle has no hint of.”

Gabriel had an instinct about mysteries, and this one sank its teeth into him, down to the bone. The lovely professor was on the trail of a killer, and she had personal skeletons she desperately wanted to hide. Whether the two were connected, he intended to discover. If he saved his paper in the process, so much the better. “Kelly, run the numbers if we move to a daily. I need to send a revenue projection to the investor group by Monday. Calculate the likely circulation increase if we ran a story about a serial killer, with teasers on the website. If we can sell one hundred fifty thousand copies, that’s the proof we’ll need for the investors.”

“One hundred and fifty thousand?” Peter and Kelly repeated in unison.

“To start.” Gabriel paid no attention to the incredulous looks. “We don’t have a lot of time here. If the doctor’s theory is true, then we’ll have the Chronicle for lunch.”

“Or start a panic.”

He didn’t disagree. But sometimes, the ends and the means had to learn to get along. “Or maybe, we’ll catch a killer.”

Chapter 9

Like any grand old dame, New Orleans showed a properly powdered face to company and a rouged and bawdier side to relatives and bosom friends. The French Quarter embodied her delectable, if misspent, youth. But when she had a mind to, she’d share a glimpse of her majestic past or regale with epic tales.