“The keys are his signature. The octopus is his weapon. I don’t know how the kid figures in.”

“Why did he give me a key? Was I almost a victim?”

“I have no idea.”

“It’s kind of like a Peter Benchley novel.”

“Okay,” Archie said.

“How much time do I have? For an exclusive?”

“Two hours and I send out a press release.”

Her phone rang. She knew that ringtone. “Number of the Beast.” Iron Maiden.

“It’s Ian,” she said.

“You can take it.”

She let it go to voice mail. “I’ll call him back,” she said. A serial killer with an octopus? She could get that story run anywhere. But she knew that once she did, any hope that Ian would hire her back was over. She’d have to make a living as a freelancer, or move to a city with more media outlets.

There was a second option.

She could use the exclusive to get back in with the Herald. Ian would have to take her back. She’d make him sign something. Everything could go back to the way it was.

“Can I smoke a cigarette and have five minutes to think about it?” she said.

“Sure,” Archie said.

Susan stood up. She looked at Archie. He waited.

“Are you giving this to me because you’re worried I was almost murdered and want to keep me around so you can keep an eye on me?” she said.

He held his thumb and forefinger out an inch apart. “A little,” he said.

Chapter 29

CHAPTER

29

Susan hunched under an overhang next to a garbage bin outside the task force building and lit a cigarette with a lighter from her raincoat pocket. The drizzle was relentless. The noon sky was flat and dark. She could hear the gutters running all around her, a constant gush of water spilling onto concrete. The streetlights from the nearby intersection swung back and forth in the gentle wind, flashing red.

The cigarette tasted really good.

She didn’t bother to check Ian’s message on her voice mail. She hardly ever listened to voice mails—if people had something important to say, well, that’s what texts were for. He probably needed her to fill out some paperwork or do an exit interview or something.

“Number of the Beast” started up again.

He was like herpes.

She let Iron Maiden sing a verse before she picked up.

“What?” she said flatly. She was going to make him work for this. If she was going back there with the story, she was going to get a better task chair, maybe even a view of the river.

“I’m sorry,” Ian said.

She would not have been more surprised if he’d said, Aliens have landed and they want to give you an interview. Maybe he had the wrong number.

“It’s Susan,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “I’m calling to say I’m sorry.”

“What?”