Trial and Terror by ADAM L PENENBERG Page B

investigator on the case.”
    “You are Wib Neuwirth’s daughter?” Mahakavi’s face beamed. “This is certainly an honor. He is retired now?”
    “He died six months ago.”
    “Oh? I am sorry for your loss.”
    Summer offered a perfunctory “Thank you.”
    “At last, I will be able to close Sean’s file. Detective Neuwirth was the last one.”
    “Last what?”
    Mahakavi acted surprised that Summer didn’t know. “Why, the last person involved in the Strickland case to die.”
    Summer jammed her hands under her armpits. She was cold. Mahakavi kept the temperature regulated to protect his collection. “Can I see the letter from Strickland to my father that you bought at auction?”
    Two cases down, a letter was tacked inside, a stamped envelope (no return address) perched on a stand next to it. An auctioneer’s certificate of authenticity was posted behind it.
    The letter was composed of letters cut out of magazines, books, and newspapers, glued to the paper:

    Mahakavi sucked his front teeth. “Notice how he spelled the first ‘you’re’?’ Sean was never one to pay attention to details.”
    Summer remembered the moment Wib opened the note, the worry that etched his face, the way his breathing became more focused, more labored, fear for his family driving blood through his heart. She flashed to the moment that had haunted her through her teens—when, on a misty night, Strickland had broken into their home through Summer’s window. She awoke to see Strickland’s lean face, hair plastered to his skull, his eyes dull and bloodshot.
    She screamed and Wib came running, gun drawn. Then an explosion of gunfire as Wib shot at Strickland, who took off across the yard. The start of a nightmare that didn’t end until Wib took off in hot pursuit, tires hydroplaning on the twisting road, and drove Strickland off the side of a mountain, where Strickland had died in a fiery ball.
    Unless he hadn’t.
    Summer studied the letter, the cracked and yellowing paper. If Strickland were alive and carrying on his vendetta, Gundy might not be the only one to end up with his skull crushed, a lipstick calling card scrawled on his back. She could be next.
    Summer superimposed her memory of Strickland with the face of Marsalis. Both must have been born around the same time, were staple-thin, unkempt, reptilian in speech and manner, insane. What if they were the same man?
    Summer realized the collector was talking to her. “What?”
    Mahakavi was pointing to his phone. “I said , would you mind if I took your picture? I would like to add it to the archive. After all, it is not every day the daughter of the investigating officer of a serial murderer visits me.”

Chapter 12

 
    Summer didn’t return home until dusk, a violet-gilded sunset. She stopped to listen to the crickets and the wheeze of insects, like the noise that had been ringing in her ears at work. Habit prevented her from taking out her keys until she was sure no one lurked.
    The windows of her apartment were clammed shut, the air inside dead and still. She flipped on the light. She moved furtively, unsure of where Marsalis’s surveillance cameras were placed or what he could see. She had decided to avoid compromising positions. She changed clothes by hanging a blanket over her head. Only made calls from throwaway cell phones, which she quickly discarded. Didn’t bring office paperwork home.
    When she passed by her computer monitor, she jumped back. Marsalis’s face shone onscreen. Large letters underneath: Answers to your questions, but first, answers to my questions . Then an Internet address.
    She backed away, as if the machine could infect her, and paced her apartment until she calmed down. She felt weak, her stomach all growly, and realized she hadn’t eaten all day. She pulled a box of cereal out of the pantry and stuffed Cheerios in her mouth, spilling crumbs on the floor; put the box back, realized she was still hungry, munched some more, put the box