There wasn’t much for me to do until dinner. I’d spoken briefly to Russo when I’d arrived at the hotel and learned he’d set up interviews with Jonathan Tate’s family and girlfriend for the next morning. We’d play it by ear after that.
I showered and changed into fresh clothes and passed the next couple of hours on my laptop. I alternated between the necessary evils of paperwork and desperate searches that might hold the answers to Wilkes’s escape.
The internet hadn’t caught wind of Wilkes’s break from prison yet, which was a small miracle. It’d buy us some time before having to deal with media on top of what was sure to turn into a killing spree. The pressure built, heavy on my shoulders, as I dialed Asha.
“I need some favors,” I said when the half-Asian, half-African-American computer whiz answered. “Quiet favors.”
“Personal?” Her fingers already clicked on the keys.
“No, work-related, but it’s sensitive,” I said, then quickly explained the nature of my trip to LaCrosse. “Can you do some digging and pull up whatever you can find about Wilkes’s escape plan?”
“Oh, Kate. Don’t tell me you’re hankering for a trip to Texas.”
“The only thing I’m certain about is that Wilkes will kill again. If he talked to someone down there—anyone—I need to know about it.”
She sighed. “I’ll pull whatever I can from the system, and outside of it. And I imagine you want me to flag any of Wilkes’s aliases, check bus systems, car rentals, the like?”
“You won’t find anything, but run the sweep anyway,” I said. “He likely knocked out his vic with some potent chemicals, which tells me Wilkes kept a stash somewhere. And whatever car he took to get up here, he’s already dumped once or twice over.”
“I’m really sorry, Kate.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“No, but I know what Wilkes... what he means to you.”
“He means nothing to me,” I said, but my voice came out cracked and dry. “Call me when you get something.”
When Asha disconnected, I changed tactics and called Jimmy. He answered with a mouthful of food.
“Doughnut or fried chicken?” I asked.
He harrumphed in a way that told me it might be both.
“Tell me about Harry Brine. Anything?”
“The autopsy won’t be completed until tomorrow,” he said. “We treated the place like a crime scene—you’re welcome. The lab’s on everything as we speak. Aside from some high-heeled prints, there’s nothing to suggest anyone else stepped foot into Brine’s house recently.”
“Huh.”
“It might be a suicide, Rosetti.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re still not convinced.”
I studied the handwriting of Wilkes’s notes, then closed my eyes. I tried to sort through my emotions and pull the ones from Ramone free from the ones of Harry Brine’s case. It was impossible.
“It was a gut feeling this morning,” I said finally. “I’m not so sure anymore. But Melinda will figure it out—she’ll get it right.”
“I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m surrounded by feds. Even Wilkes can’t be thrilled that his first killing triggered the system. He would have expected to fly under the radar... at least for a while.”
“He could have avoided it,” Jimmy pointed out. “All the man had to do was leave the victim’s teeth in his mouth.”
“A very good point. Well, keep me posted on the Brine case.”
“You’re at a dead end and needed a distraction?”
I hid a smile. “Get back to your doughnut, Jones.”
Next up on my distraction task list was Melinda, but her phone went straight to voicemail, which was just fine because I didn’t have much to say anyway. Lassie, however, answered with the same enthusiasm of a golden retriever pup.
“I heard you caught a gigantically huge case!” Lassie even sounded blonde and bubbly. “Can I get an exclusive?”
“Don’t start,” I said. “Though I do need a favor.”
“Friendship is a two-way street.”
“Let’s talk about Harry Brine.”
“Harry? Oh, I can’t help you out much there. He’s ignoring me after my last article calling him an eligible bachelor—I don’t know why. It was a compliment. But don’t worry, eventually, I just wear people down. Like you. I don’t think you liked me for a long time, but eventually I wormed my way into your cold little heart.”
I laughed, something only Lassie could make me do at a time like the present. Unfortunately, the conversation turned somber when I remembered why I’d called her in the first place.
“That’s a long silence,” Lassie prompted. “And you don’t ask for favors unless someone’s dead. Do you think Harry killed someone? Or—oh my stars!—Harry’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I’m afraid so. But no blog posts until I say so, okay?”
“How can I sit on this one?!”
“Because I told you to. And if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t know a thing.”
“But someone’s going to break the story.”
I could practically hear her pouting over the phone. “I think there might be more to the story than just his death.”
“Murder?”
“I can’t comment yet. Autopsy is tomorrow morning, and things are...” I hesitated. “Let’s call them uncertain.”
“This is bonkers! I just ran a feature on him not too long ago!”
“Exactly. Did you learn anything about him?”
“I think he was having an affair with someone high profile,” she said in a hushed voice as if sharing classified secrets. “Listen, Kate. He was on all the bachelor lists including mine. Handsome, rich, sorta famous but not so famous that he was unattainable—all that juicy stuff. He went out with lots of women. Then a few weeks ago, he stopped.”
“Which part, the dating?”
“Yes, ma’am. Rumor is, he even declined a date with Emmy Tolinger—visiting superstar.”
“The singer?”
“Come on, Kate. She’s an actress.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Anyway, she came to town?”
“Made a public declaration she wanted to go out with Harry. It looked like he was going to accept—and former Harry totally would have—then last minute, he cancelled. He didn’t make a public appearance with another woman after that!”
“Maybe he was busy?”
“Not that busy,” she said. “He was seeing someone.”
“Any ideas as to who?” I asked, thinking of the high heeled shoe prints.
“I wish I knew. Dang, that would’ve made a good story on its own. But now with Harry dead and murdered so awfully, it would make a fab story. Hey, do you think she did it? Jealous lover or something?”
“I don’t know, Lassie,” I said. “But thanks. If you can, get ahold of Emily Toldart—”
“Emmy Tolinger?”