The Delilah Complex Read Online Free Page B

“No. The photos make sense—besides, we can’t run the nude shots. But the hair is too important. Why did the killer send the cuttings? What does it mean? Is it symbolic of something? It’s disturbing and perverse.”
    Jordain stood up. Perez followed his lead, and they gathered up all the materials, putting each item into an evidence bag. When the two of them were done, Jordain directed his comments to Hastings.
    “I don’t want this to be a battle. I’m asking you not to force me to throw the department’s weight around.”
    Hastings lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew out the smoke. “We don’t want that, either, Detective.”
    “Fine. I’m glad to hear it. So I won’t be reading anything in the paper about this lock of hair?”
    “No. You won’t. And, in exchange, we expect to hear any information that you have before any other papers.”
    Jordain frowned at him. He wasn’t going to bargain. And he wasn’t going to give in. He didn’t have to offer the paper anything and he was tired of the adversarial attitude. He’d encountered it in New Orleans and now here. “I am not going to make promises. We’ll do our best to keep you informed. That’s as far as I’ll go. There are fingerprints all over the photos.” He looked at Betsy. “Are your fingerprints on file?”
    She nodded and tried to stare him down. It didn’t work.
    He and Perez were done. They started for the door, but Perez stopped and looked back at Hastings. “Because of the number 1 on the victim’s feet, there’s a strong possibility there is going to be a second victim. We’re going to send someone over to talk to your mail room guys about how to sort through the mail for the next week or so. And you, too, Betsy.”
    Jordain and Perez walked out of the newsroom without talking. They were quiet on the elevator. You never know who’s listening. You keep silent until you are alone, out of earshot. Especially when you’re in the offices of the
New York Times
.
    “Let’s do a background check on Ms. Young,” Jordain said once they were back on the street. “This might be nothing, but I want to make sure it’s nothing.”
    Perez agreed. “Assuming it is, why would someone want the newspaper to have this before the police?”
    “To make sure it’s in the papers in all its glory. To preventus from keeping any of it out of the public eye. To take control. To keep control. Take your pick.”
    “What’s your pick?” Perez asked.
    “All of the above,” Jordain said.

Seven

    I was sitting in the makeup room of the
Today
show on that Friday morning in early October, nursing a cup of strong black coffee while a young woman stroked my face with a wet sponge, adding a warm tone to my pale skin. It was seven-thirty and I still had to have my hair done. I wasn’t due on the set for another forty minutes, but that wasn’t why I was nervous.
    Even though I knew the topic we’d be discussing, I didn’t know exactly what the questions were going to be. Whatever I wanted to impart to the public about when to see a sex therapist and why, I’d have to do it in less than five minutes.
    I drank more of the coffee and stared into the mirror, watching the makeup artist work her magic on my face.
    No matter how well you understand how fear works, how adrenaline flows into your bloodstream and how it makes you feel, it’s still unnerving to know you are going to be on national television, and that your face and voice and words are going to be seen and heard by more than eight million people.
    I would have rather been almost anywhere else, but Iwas there for one of those eight million people: a thirteenyear-old girl who was sitting glued to a TV screen at her father’s apartment, waiting to see her mother on television.
    Daily, Dulcie had been asking me about nervous reactions. While the debut of the Broadway production was months away, there was a preview in a few weeks, in Boston. We talked about stage fright often, from the chemicals your