The Gift of the Darkness by Valentina Giambanco Page A

her father—they granted her safe passage and whatever peace she would allow herself.
    Madison put the file on the passenger seat and the engine into gear, and she drove home. The answering machine was flashing red. “Hey, Alice, it’s Marlene. You’re not ducking out of our reunion dinner this time. We should be celebrating your gold shield and that Judy made it out of Traffic, if you can believe it. Call me, before I put an APB out on you.”
    Fifteen minutes later Madison was asleep on the sofa, wrapped in the white comforter from her bedroom, a half-eaten tuna sandwich on the coffee table and Some Like It Hot in the DVD player.

Chapter 12
    Fred Tully’s career had been less than shining for a long time. He sat at his desk in the offices of the Washington Star , a page of copy to proofread in one hand and a slice of congealed pizza in the other. He looked at the round clock hanging on the far wall. Midnight. He’d rather be somewhere else, anywhere rather than here, where he felt his life getting dimmer by the day. He thought of his wife at home, watching cable and not missing him.
    The intern dropped an envelope on his desk, startling Tully almost off his chair.
    “Wear shoes people can hear, will ya?” he snapped without turning.
    It was a rigid white envelope. His name was printed on a small label—there was no other writing. Tully looked around the room; he wasn’t the kind of guy who got hand-delivered mail in the middle of the night—hadn’t been for a while.
    He tore the flap with his index finger. Some son of a gun was going to get his butt kicked if this was a joke. Inside was a sheet of paper and a smaller envelope.
    Tully read the short paragraph once. He bit into what was left of the pizza and held it in his mouth as he opened the smaller envelope and took out a photograph.
    It was color, taken indoors with a flash. A lamp in the foreground and what looked like part of the headboard of a bed. Tully didn’t know what he was looking at. He read the paragraph, stared at the picture, reread the paragraph, stared at the picture.
    Greg Salomon, editor of the Star , didn’t look up when Tully strode into his office. “What’s up?”
    Tully closed the door. He put the photograph on the desk. Salomon pushed up his glasses and picked it up.
    “What am I looking at?”
    “The Blue Ridge crime scene.”
    There was a beat of silence between them.
    “How did you get this?”
    Tully smiled.
    “I mean it, how did you get this?”
    “Somebody out there loves me. I just got it.”
    “Did you have to pay for it?”
    “Not one dollar.”
    There was a magnifier under a stack of papers. Salomon found it and examined the picture.
    “You can’t see too much but enough to know what you’re looking at. The real thing?”
    “You bet. This came with it.” Tully handed him the sheet of paper.
    I’ll be in touch.
    “What do you think?”
    “It’s not for publication—we’d get our butt chewed by the police and the DA’s office. It’s something to tell us he’s close to the investigation. I’m thinking, cop ,” Tully said.
    “Yeah, he’s just getting us interested. The next time he’s going to want money. Thank God for government salaries.”
    “Amen to that.” Tully scribbled on his pad. “I’m calling the primary. We can confirm the positioning of the bodies, the blindfolds . . .”
    He looked over at the picture. The dark crosses were out of focus but perfectly visible. That was all he could see—heads on pillows from the side.
    “Could this be one of your regular sources?” Salomon asked.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I’m going to have to call Kramer; he’s working the story.”
    “This is mine , Greg.”
    “I know. We’ll sort something out.”
    We’d better , Tully thought.
    At 5:45 a.m., Madison was suddenly awake. The digital clock glowed on her bedside table. Only three hours earlier she had awoken on the sofa downstairs. The film had finished, and, in a daze, she had