The Crossover (11 page)

“Ann, there seemed to be a dark cloud floating around in pass down. I haven’t read the message traffic, what’s goin’ on?”

“Clay,
Operation Searchlight
, that’s what. If the Press gets a hold of this it will be absolute pandemonium.”

“Operation Searchlight?
That must be a new Op. What is it? Terrorism, human trafficking, white collar?”

I followed Ann to her office and she handed me a SECRET folder that read
Limited Distribution Only.

“Here, this should bring you up to speed. The latest message is an executive summary. Read the first paragraph.”

After being in the game for a while it was hard to alarm me. This was an exception, it jolted me.

“Oh, my god. All this in a week? How many deaths are we talking about?” I asked while speed-reading through the message traffic.

Ann was normally a very bubbly woman and I had never seen her so serious.

“Seven. There may be more. Whoever he is, he’s good, real good. I talked to our guy in London and he said it’s like chasing shadows. They got nothin’ to go on.”

“Why do they call it
Operation Searchlight.
That’s a weird name for an Op?”

“Maybe because they’re lost on this one.”

I handed the folder back to Ann.

Over the course of the last seven days a serial killer had emerged, randomly targeting women of all ages around Central London. All the women were found in the trunks of their cars; their bodies in large black duffle bags. No incriminating DNA traces were found on the padlocks or anywhere inside the vehicle. Comparisons to the Ripper case abounded within the department. This appeared to be the perfect crime, no witnesses, no motive and no end in sight.

The work day zipped along and by the time I clocked out, I was a little too emotionally invested in the case. This wasn’t an episode from
NCIS
or
Law and Order,
it was real life. The reports I read were sanitized and redacted information was blacked out. The raw reporting, complete with pictures of the victims, had to be absolutely deplorable and unviewable. Each of the girls was someone’s daughter, maybe someone’s wife, somebody’s close friend.

I parked my car in front of my house and noticed Louise carrying a blue wheelie bin to the curb.

“Hey, Louise. I can always count on you to remind me it’s rubbish collection day. I’d better get my bin before I forget,” I said as I met Louise near her perfectly manicured front lawn.

“Carl’s hardly around these days, somebody’s got to do it. After a long day at work, I can’t be bothered to wash up
¹
anymore. In fact, I haven’t washed up for a few days now. Maybe Carl will get the message,” Louise commented.

“Yeah, my son hardly ever washed up, he just let the dishes pile up. Since it’s just me now I only have myself to clean up after.”

“Clay, I think you have a new neighbor. I’ve only seen her once. She only leaves the house to get groceries. Her car didn’t move all weekend.”

“Hmm, does she have a family, any kids?” I inquired.

“I think she’s a spinster. Carl asked around and I think she’s a writer. I think you’ll get along with her.”

“Okay, why is that? Because she is a writer?”

“No, because she speaks your language, she’s a Yank.”

I’d lived in England for just over a decade and it always tickled me when Brits referred to every American as a Yank no matter what part of the States they come from. Whenever my Brit friends would try to imitate an American, invariably they defaulted to a thick southern accent.

I found myself checking my watch every now and then wondering what Monet was doing at that moment. The five-hour time difference was inconvenient but workable. I usually had to wait until midnight to
Skype
her.

Ring, Ring, Ring.

“Clay, I can see you but you are frozen. Can you see me?”

“Yeah, but there’s just one problem?”

“What? Am I pixelated?” Monet asked.

“No, just overdressed. Too much clothing.”

“Well, you will just have to use your imagination then. I hope you have a good memory,” Monet responded.

“Monet, I have to come clean. There’s another female in the picture and she lives with me.”

Monet didn’t say a word but her eyebrows were slightly raised. She crossed her arms.

I left the camera’s view and returned with the lady of the house on my lap.

“Monet, meet Missy,” I said, just before Missy sprung from my lap onto the floor.

“Clay, don’t make me come across the pond. Because you know I will,” Monet said, relieved.

My picture finally unfroze and Monet was glad to see my face again. We got disconnected a few times but it was worth the hassle to see her face and hear her voice. This would become the new norm.

Skyping with Monet really helped me take my mind off work.

While lying in bed I found myself thinking a lot about my strange encounter with Winnie at the
Hypno Expo.
Her conversation looped in my head and I tried to make meaning of it.

“You have the gift, yet you don’t believe.”

I needed to know what she meant by that. Then I remembered Monet’s comment about psychics. Maybe Winnie was the real deal. The rest of the night I kept asking myself,
What gift?
I also thought of the message from my dad,
Hold up the light
. I believed it was a message from my dad. I now had a better understanding of those people I once ridiculed as gullible.

¹
British term meaning to wash the dishes after a meal

I
was pleased that I had a writer for a neighbor, especially an American. As a writer, I took that as a good omen. Maybe she could help me land a mainstream publisher. The only problem was I never saw her. She appeared to be a recluse. It would take three weeks for us to be formally introduced but it would be a less than desirable introduction.

One morning on my way to work I saw a note on my windshield.

Your car is hogging up the driveway, I can’t get past. That’s what garages are for!

I took the note off the windshield and looked over to her house. She was watching me from her living room window. She closed the curtains.

I normally would have knocked on her door and apologized but I really wasn’t in the mood for confrontation so early in the day. I balled up the note, put it in my pocket and drove to work with an attitude. Anyone who’s ever lived in Britain knows that garages aren’t for parking your car, they’re too small. To avoid any more nasty notices I decided to park my Range Rover on the street, against my better judgment.

While feeding Missy before work, I heard a loud crash in front of my house. Cat food spilled all over the kitchen floor as I rushed outside to see what happened. It was ugly. My neighbor from hell hit my car from behind as she accelerated out of our drive. The force of the impact pushed my SUV halfway on the sidewalk. I was furious. She was standing by the point of impact.

“That’s just great. I just got this car a month ago. I hope you have insurance.” I argued with serious attitude.

I was expecting an apology.

“Well, if you wouldn’t have parked in my blind spot!”

“Blind spot? Blind spots are behind you.”

It takes a lot to get under my skin, but her attitude just made the situation insufferable. She had more to say.

“Excuse me, the hedge here obstructed my vision. That’s called a blind spot.”

“Whatever. We need to exchange insurance details. I’m gonna let my insurance handle this. I’m through with it.”

While exchanging information, a local police officer stopped to investigate.

I was happy to see a neutral third party who could put this right.

“Is anyone here hurt?” asked the police officer.

“No,” we both responded.

The officer ran our plates and inspected the damage to both cars.

While the officer took copious notes, I examined the insurance details of the offender.

Ironically we had the same surname but she spelled it Tompson, without the h. Her name was Joanne Tompson. Joanne was white, 50ish and the most unappealing woman I’d ever met. Not only did she have a bad attitude but she was as plain as they come. No makeup, straight, reddish hair and she was dressed like she was a ‘60s hippie . She looked absolutely ridiculous with her floppy denim hat. Underneath her jacket she wore a tie-dye shirt and stone-washed jeans.

The police officer then began writing a citation. I was happy; she deserved to be cited for hitting a parked car. Joanne and I took turns trading evil stares.

“Well, at least there are no injuries, but I’m afraid I have to issue a ticket,” the nice policeman stated.

I felt vindicated and smiled at Joanne sarcastically.

“Here you go Mr. Thompson, you have 7 days to prove you have insurance.”

“Wait, I do have insurance. I’m insured with
Aviva
and I have a monthly debit.”

The officer explained.

“Mr. Thompson, DVLA indicates your insurance is expired. Your car should not be on Her Majesty’s road. If your car were on private property this incident would not have happened.”

This was easily solved. I calmly excused myself to retrieve my latest insurance letter. I opened the letter.

Mr. Thompson, please electronically sign your renewal to extend coverage. You must respond within seven days.

Of course, if the accident would have occurred one day earlier I would have been covered.
Shit!

I regretted ever parking my car on the street. I was just trying to be nice.

By noon, both Joanne and I were in our rentals.

It was Sunday and it was the day Monet and I had our longest
Skype
sessions.

“Monet, I can hear you, just can’t see you.”

“My camera is off. I’m not dressed yet. Hold on,” Monet replied.

“Babe, I have seen it all before. Last month even. C’mon, how about a little peek?”

Monet turned her camera on.