Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Maybe he’ll even love me.
Callahan knocks firmly on the door. A woman in her early forties answers, with tired eyes and hair pulled back in a practical bun. She wears a nurse’s uniform, clearly just home from a shift at the hospital.
“Margaret Wilson?” Callahan asks, showing his credentials. “Victor Callahan, private investigator. This is my associate, Miss Reid. We’d like to ask you some questions about Jeanne French.”
Margaret’s expression tightens. “The police already took my statement.”
“We’re working with the family,” I say smoothly, adding just a hint of compulsion to my voice—not enough to control, just enough to soothe her wariness. “Just trying to understand what happened to Jeanne. May we come in?”
She steps back, gesturing us inside. The apartment is neat but spartan, furnished with mismatched pieces. Photographs on the mantle show two women in their nursing uniforms, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling against backdrops of different hospitals.
“You were friends for a long time,” Callahan observes, nodding toward the pictures.
Margaret’s composure cracks slightly. “Since training. We served in the South Pacific together during the war.” She gestures for us to sit on a worn sofa while she takes the armchair opposite. “What do you want to know that I haven’t already told the police?”
“We’re particularly interested in Jeanne’s relationships,” Callahan begins carefully. “Anyone new in her life recently, especially in the last few months.”
Margaret’s eyes narrow. “You’re not really with the family, are you? Jeanne’s sister wouldn’t send private investigators. She can barely afford the funeral.”
Callahan and I exchange glances. “No,” he admits. “Not on behalf of her family. We’re investigating a series of deaths that may be connected to Jeanne’s murder. The police are treating it as an isolated incident, but we have reason to believe there’s more to it.”
“What kind of more?” Margaret asks, sitting up straighter, her professional caution giving way to curiosity.
“That remains to be seen,” I say, leaning forward. “Was Jeanne seeing anyone recently? Someone new, someone different?”
Margaret hesitates, then sighs. “There was someone. She wouldn’t tell me much about him—just that he was from somewhere in Europe. Eastern Europe I think.”
I feel Callahan tense beside me. “Russian?” he asks.
“She never said specifically. But she started seeing him about a month ago. Just after Christmas. Would come home late, wearing clothes I knew she couldn’t afford on a nurse’s salary. Expendable income isn’t really our bag, you know.” Margaret’s mouth tightens. “I told her to be careful. Men who shower you with gifts usually want something in return.”
“Did you ever meet him?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“No. He never came here. Always picked her up on the corner, or they met somewhere.” Margaret stands, moving to a small writing desk in the corner. She returns with a small item in her palm. “I found this in her coat pocket after she…after they found her body.”
She places a matchbook on the coffee table between us. The red cover bears a simple clover embossed in gold, with no address or other information.
“She’d been going to this place,” Margaret continues. “Crimson Clover. Some kind of exclusive club in San Pedro. I only know because she mentioned it was near or in Shanghai Reds—we used to go there sometimes during the war to meet sailors. Said it was hidden, that you needed to know someone to get in. She felt all la-dee-da about it.”
Callahan picks up the matchbook, turning it over in his hand. His fingers are steady, but I can sense the tension radiating from him—the controlled excitement of a hunter finding a trail. This is him in his element and I can’t look away.
“Did she mention anything else?” Callahan presses. “Any names, places, strange occurrences?”
Margaret pauses, considering. “She did seem…different the last few weeks. More secretive. And there was one odd thing—I saw her carrying a vial of her own blood.”
I stiffen.
“Her blood?” Callahan echoes.
“She said her new friend was fascinated by her rare blood type. Into that horoscope hocus-pocus I guess. I told her it was bizarre, but she laughed it off. Said it was just an eccentricity.”
My stomach turns. It’s possible the Ivanovs weren’t just selecting victims with AB negative blood—they were collecting samples, perhaps testing compatibility for their ritual.
“When was the last time you saw her?” I ask.
“Two nights ago. She dressed up, said she was meeting him at the club.” She nods at the matchbook. “She seemed excited. Almost giddy. Said he was introducing her to people who could change her life.”
Change her life? End it, more like.
“Thank you, Ms. Wilson,” Callahan says, standing. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Will finding this man help catch Jeanne’s killer?” she asks.
Callahan meets her gaze directly. “I believe he is Jeanne’s killer.”
Her face pales. “Oh dear. Well. You better make him pay.”
“We intend to,” I promise, anger rising in me like a tide. Another woman used and discarded by the Ivanovs, another life cut short for their arcane purposes, ones that we still don’t understand.