Could it have been the same person that killed Jackson Mirabelli?

Diana needed to know the answers.

This guy that I've already been searching for, has now come to me. Why did you kill Neil? Did he have some connection to Jackson, Thomas, or any of the others?

"Did your husband know the other victims well?" Slattery asked, while Rothschild checked his phone. He'd been staring into that tiny device most of the interrogation.

I bet Rothschild is going over Facebook updates or probably taking a selfie.

"Mrs. Carson?" Slattery said.

"Yes."

"Did your husband know any of the other victims?"

"No," she said. "I mean as much as anyone on the island knows each other. It's pretty hard not to remember the name of faces that you see day to day, but did Neil actually spend time with any of these men? No. Not even a golf or game day. Neil spent time with women. All of his employees were females. All of his friends were women he'd known for years. The only thing a person with a p.e.n.i.s could do for Neil was either lift something heavy, or point him in the direction of a v.a.g.i.n.a."

Right at the mention of v.a.g.i.n.a, she shut her mouth.

Perhaps, I'm not okay. Maybe, I'm just a little bit angry at that b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"Sorry," she blurted out.

"I understand." Officer Slattery glanced over at Rothschild who continued to tap things into his phone. "Okay, so you said you had questions for us."

"Are you certain that Neil died the same way the other men did?" she asked.

"That's not something I can tell you," Slattery said.

"My husband and I have not only contributed ma.s.s sums of money to this department, we've also managed to unite with a lot of powerful friends on the island." Diana didn't like to strong-arm cops, but sometimes moments like these called for it. "I don't expect you to tell me intricate details of all the murders, but I do want to know if Neil is being considered as one of the victims of this serial killer on the island."

"Hey," Captain Rothschild held his hand up, but didn't look away from the phone. "No one is saying this is a serial killer."

"He's murdered three men that are similar-rich and white. Clearly, there's someone upset about something and on a mission. This screams serial killer."

Rothschild targeted her with a piercing gaze. "This is not a serial killer." He rose from his seat and headed to the door. "In fact, our questions are over. Slattery, please finish this and make sure Mrs. Carson is taken care of."

The fat officer nodded.

Diana waited for Captain Rothschild to leave, and then attacked Slattery with a look that scared most. "Come on. Tell me something."

"I. . .can't."

"You look like you work hard." She gestured to his wrinkled shirt. "You spent the night at the station right?"

He nodded.

"All that hard work, and no one cares." She shook her head. "Nothing gets done. No one goes to jail, and if they do, they're out within fifteen minutes thanks to their huge law team. You're tired of it. Aren't you? The bulls.h.i.t. The evil that breeds from money. The crime that gets ignored."

Slattery formed his lips into a straight line.

"I'm a news reporter."

"I know who you are," he said.

"I always have a wealth of information. It's sad to say, but I could get clues and facts from places on this island that you could never even venture into. I have developed a lot of contacts with many people. I could help you with not only this investigation, but future ones. Additionally, I could get your supervisors off your back at times, just by waving around my money." She smiled at him and offered her hand. "h.e.l.lo, Officer Slattery. Would you like to be my friend?"

He stared at the hand and didn't shake it. "I've found that friends on this island tend to change into enemies at the most inopportune times."

"Then let's call this a friendly probationary period."

He glanced around as if someone was hiding in the room, and then shook her hand. "What do you want to know?"

"How similar was my husband's death to the other victims?" she asked.

"Just like the others," Slattery muttered. "Hole was the same size, too. Definitely, some sort of hunting arrow. The murderer probably uses a high-tech bow. Something a hunter would use to take down big game."

Slattery, glanced at Diana briefly. "We're going to have to keep this quiet. Don't want to alarm the public. We need to find this guy. And fast."

She shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair, writhing with the desire to be loose. "Could you get me some copies of the case files for the other murders and any similar ones in the past year?"

Slattery rubbed a worried groove into his chin. "I don't think that's a good idea or that it will do any good."

"You don't have any witnesses."

"This is true."

"I could get you witnesses."

Slattery glanced over his shoulder again. "I. . .I don't want any connection to-"

"Of course not. I would never tell anybody my sources."

Slattery and Diana talked some more. They did so in whispers and nervous checks of the gla.s.s window where Captain Rothschild paced and watched them. They shared a few details between each other, and then promised to figure out an appropriate time that afternoon to exchange the files.

Thirty minutes later, Diana was excused, and a female officer had her signing paperwork and answering a few more tedious questions about Neil.

She answered like a robot, yet on the inside, determination beat within her heart. Unlike other wives who'd just found out that their husbands were brutally murdered, Diana hoped to drown in this mystery, to investigate the people, places, and things the police so often missed. And what would be better than to look into her own husband's death?

Does he even deserve justice? No, Diana. Stop that. Neil is dead. I can't be mad at him.

Yet, anger and sadness bubbled in her chest. She pushed it all aside, blinked the tears away, and considered all the new facts that she'd heard tonight.

I need to find witnesses. That's what the police have been unable to do. I'll need to find the blonde chick that was seen walking in with Jackson. That will be where I'll start. Then maybe I can talk to Thomas's daughter. He was the man found dead at his daughter's head board while she slept. Why would the killer murder Thomas in his daughter's room?

Diana had been in the game long enough to know what she was and wasn't supposed to do. She thought about the news headline she would write later today. It flashed over and over again until it burned into her skull.

A Serial Killer Among Us.

Ovid Island City Police Department would be furious with the article. Her boss would scold her, and then give her his cla.s.sic wink, but one thing would remain despite it all: The truth would be out.

He, whoever he was, would know that Diana Carson was not the reporter you wanted to f.u.c.k with. And if you're going to kill her husband and his pathetic mistress, you are bound and determined to get caught.

So she waited in the interrogation room, as the police tripped over their own shoes and twiddled their thumbs with evidence.

She waited for them to double check her alibi.

She waited for them to notify her that she could not enter Neil's extra s.e.x-fest apartment, due to it being a crime scene.

And she waited and waited some more, the whole time, writing her entire news article in her head, until finally, Captain Rothschild let her leave.

"Sorry about your loss, Mrs. Carson," he said to her as she pa.s.sed him in the hallway.

"I'm not." She tossed back her hair and let the heavy police doors slam shut on the way out.

Five.

Diana

The rest of the day, Diana dived into the murders. She consumed the files Officer Slattery had given her, called up some of her trusty contacts, and was sure she had some good leads to search out in a few hours.

Then a knock came at her office door.

She looked up from her big desk.

A gorgeous man greeted her eyes and said in a deep voice, "Are you Diana Carson?"

Diana was certain he asked a question, though it sounded more like a command. As if the words barreled out of him and fed right into her veins. He was tall, blonde, impeccably dressed in a fitted navy striped suit.

Banker? CEO?

She cleared her throat. "Yes, I am."

He nodded and pulled a chair up to her desk. "I'd like to offer you a deal."

Diana's eyebrows rose.

This should be good. If it involves any sort of s.e.xual bargaining, I'm in.

"Oh yeah?" She took her hand off her mouse and placed it in her lap. "And what's that?"

"I would like you to investigate something for me."

"I'm a news reporter, not an investigator."

He curved those lovely lips into a smirk. "I'm well aware of who you are."

"Then you know that if I'm investigating it, then it's to publish a story. I don't keep secrets. I share them with the world."

"Like I said." His smirk widened. "I'm well aware of who you are. Besides, I believe you would be invested in this deal."

"Why?"

"Because it involves your husband and his. . .horrific demise."

A shutter of sadness ran through her. The reaction disgusted her. Wasn't she supposed to be happy Neil had gone that way? If he'd been a better man, wouldn't he still be alive? Why the h.e.l.l could she not be okay with just hearing that Neil was gone?

Pushing all of the emotional chaos out of her head, she swallowed and carefully said, "Maybe you should explain what the deal is."

"Are you confident that the murderer you wrote about this morning, is a serial killer?"

She leaned back in her chair. "Yes. Why?"

"Most serial killers have specific victims that they target."

"Yes, this is correct," she agreed. "I think it's at least safe to a.s.sume that this serial killer targets rich men."

"Maybe even only rich, white men." He held his hands out as if to say that he, himself fit that category.

"So my article scared you?"

"It freaked out a lot of people."

Diana crossed her legs under her desk. "So back to your deal."

"I researched you."

"Why?"

"Why not? The point is, I looked up your past works." He raised his hands and then clapped them slowly. "You've accomplished great things, Mrs. Carson. In your years as a lowly reporter for the Miami Times, two serial killers were caught due to your investigative reports. You then transferred to the New York Times and cracked a few federal cases on Wall Street. I can go on and on-"

"But there's no need to, I know exactly everything I've done. What is the deal, Mr. . .? What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't."

"Maybe, you should."