“I’m sorry—I no longer talk to reporters.”
She walked away and Woodhouse scurried to keep pace with her. “C’mon, Sheba. The bulls aren’t giving us anything but the same wad of chewing gum. We know Jacob Call can’t be the Pentacle Killer, unless he can off somebody from behind bars or he’s got an accomplice. Say… accomplice. That’s good.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Woodhouse.”
T. S. Woodhouse gripped Evie’s arm, and she glared at him until he was forced to remove his hand. He jerked his head at the other reporters. “These fellas get the jump, I got no story for today. I’ve been showering daisies on your Uncle Will’s museum. I’m trying to make a name for myself here, too. You understand?”
She did understand. She also understood that T. S. Woodhouse would do anything, say anything, step on anyone to get that story. It had been a mistake to get involved with him. And it was time for T. S. Woodhouse to get his comeuppance.
“Very well, Mr. Woodhouse,” Evie said. “We believe the killer is working from an ancient mystical text, the Ars Mysterium.”
“Yeah?” Woodhouse said, practically salivating at the tip. “That’s good.”
“Now, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, not even your publisher”—Evie bit her lip and made a show of craning her neck to be sure they weren’t overheard—“but we believe the next killing will take place tonight, on Hell Gate Bridge. You’ll want to be there with your cameraman.”
“You on the level?”
“Would I lie to such an upstanding member of the press?”
T. S. Woodhouse was weighing his ambition against her story. She could tell by the twist of his mouth.
“Thanks, Sheba,” he said at last.
“Don’t mention it—and I do mean that, Mr. Woodhouse.”
It had been a perfectly hideous day, but as she walked away from T. S. Woodhouse, Evie couldn’t help but feel a stab of satisfaction at thinking of him later, freezing in the bitter wind on Hell Gate bridge, waiting for a story that would never happen, while all the other reporters got the jump on him.
THE SAME SONG
“Dammit!” Will stubbed his cigarette hard into the ashtray. The four of them—Evie, Jericho, Sam, and Will—sat at one of the library’s long tables. Will had closed the museum early despite the crowds clamoring for tours of the supernatural led by Manhattan’s foremost expert on the occult. “He’s just going to keep killing, and we’ll always be one step behind him.”