Chosen by a Killer Page 3

  “Let me get this one,” Celia said when the waiter brought the ticket. “Please.”

  Bart didn’t look completely comfortable, but he agreed. Celia didn’t want him to get the wrong impression, being the one to pay every time. Everything in life was a transaction. She handed the ticket and her card to the waiter, and then she excused herself to go to the restroom.

  “Hey, Celia, I thought that was you,” Julia, a colleague, said as she washed her hands.

  “You were right about this place,” Celia replied. “The food is great.”

  “I enjoyed looking at your date,” Julia teased. “Where’d you find him?”

  “He’s an attorney in town. Yeah, he’s easy on the eyes.”

  “Hot is more like it. He needs to invite Dan to his gym a few times. Get rid of that dad-bod.”

  Celia laughed. “See you back at work.”

  Bart had her card and was standing by the door. He’d taken care of the tip, and they walked outside together. He leaned in for a kiss, but Celia gave him a friendly hug instead. “It was great to see you. Enjoy your weekend fundraiser.”

  “Thanks. Have a safe trip,” Bart answered quickly, but Celia noticed it. That same dark look. What was wrong? Perhaps his relationship with his former in-laws wasn’t as cozy as he claimed.

  When Celia arrived back from lunch, Gladys had a stack of messages for her. Most people used digital means, but after a controversial story broke, Celia liked to have a hard copy as well. Threats sometimes happened, and the paper copy of the number and name of the person who had called made Celia feel more in control of the situation.

  Several of the messages were from the law office that represented the subject of her latest article. She wasn’t worried about those. She’d covered all the bases, her ass, as well as the publication’s. She recognized one name as a family member and a couple of others as victims of his unethical behavior. Those would go unanswered; Celia didn’t do emotional displays and pleadings. The rest she’d have to check into before making a decision.

  “You’re back, I see.” John poked his head into her office. He saw the stack of messages and smiled. “You caused another stir, didn’t you?”

  “Who, me?” Celia chuckled. “You know I aim to please.”

  “That you do. This will send our sales up for sure. Everyone likes to see a rich man get screwed.”

  “True. Except for the ones who want his money.”

  John laughed. “Working on anything new I should know about?”

  “Just tying up some ends and getting ready for the interview in Phoenix.”

  John studied her for a minute, then slapped the door frame. “Okay then. I’ll let you get back to it.”

  Celia shook her head after he walked away. Good grief, he was nosy! Every journalist had at least a tinge of paranoia now and then, but John’s could be incredibly annoying at times. He was fishing, Celia was sure of it. But she wasn’t going to take any bait until she had something solid from her next project—a cold-blooded, beautiful killer.

  When Celia arrived home, her telephone was blinking. Sighing, she pressed the button. The messages could only be from one person. I really need to get rid of this landline.

  “Celia, it’s me again. I know it’s been a long time. I want to talk to you. Please, it’s important—”

  She erased the message without hearing the rest.

  Chapter 4

  The night before her appointment at the prison, Celia reread the requirements and restrictions the prison had concerning death row inmate visits. It would probably be a no-contact visit, which meant she and Natasha would be separated by a partition. There was a list of prohibited clothing, but since Celia didn’t wear sundresses or revealing clothing to an interview, she wasn’t too worried about that. The attorney had assured Natasha that she could have a pad, pen, and recording device. She would likely be at least informally searched. Most of it wasn’t new information; Celia had visited prisons before, though this was her first death row visit.

  “License and pass. Be sure to sign the log after you finish the paperwork.” A grandmotherly woman sat at the desk behind what was likely bulletproof glass. She typed loudly at a keyboard and handed Celia a clipboard without looking away from the screen.

  “Please step this way.” A corrections officer wearing gloves directed her. He gave her a quick pat-down and took her purse and phone. After examining her recording device, he nodded.

  “I’m Robert. Follow me please.” He used a code and badge to open the first set of doors. Both their shoes echoed along the hallway, and Celia made a note to wear different shoes next time.

  “Does Natasha get many visitors?”

  “Her attorney visits, of course. Other than that I can’t discuss. Wait, please.”

  Of course, he can’t tell me that. Celia watched him swipe the badge and enter another code, and the second set of doors opened. Another officer joined them until they reached a set of doors.

  “Keith will take you from here. See you in an hour.”

  Keith was a tall, lean man who was probably about 40. He shook Celia’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Brockwell. We’ll be visiting Mr. Bronlov in Room 4. I need to remind you that you are to remain across the table from the inmate at all times. Both of you are to remain seated. The visit will be for one hour, and I will be outside the door. I will knock once when you have ten more minutes and once when you have five minutes left. There is a button on your side of the table should you need anything.”

  “Thanks. I thought there would be a partition.”

  “Ms. Bronlov is allowed contact visits with her attorney. We will allow contact visits in this case too unless they become a problem.”

  “I assure you I do not plan to create any problems.”

  Keith smiled again and unlocked the door to Room 4. “Celia Brockwell is here to see you. Celia, Natasha Bronlov. I’ll be outside the door. You have one hour.”

  “Thank you for coming, Celia. I apologize for not standing to shake your hand, but the prison has so many rules.” She laughed. “Have a seat.”

  Natasha sat at the table, her legs crossed casually and her hair swept back into a band. The bland prison uniform blended with the neutral walls. Natasha, however, was anything but neutral. Even without her makeup, she was still stunning.

  “Thank you for the invitation. Do you mind if I record? It will give me the most reliable record.”

  “Of course, I assumed you would. I like your suit. I think decent clothing is one of the things I miss the most. Well, that and cigarettes.”

  She’s going to be executed, and she acts like I’m from Harper’s, interviewing her in her living room. Celia wondered how much was practiced and how much of it came from resignation to her fate.

  “I’m sure. I smoked for 10 years. Quitting was a bitch.” Celia opened her notepad and pressed record on her device. “So in your letter, you said you wanted an authentic telling of your story. I’d like to start wherever you are most comfortable; however, we do not have to go in chronological order. I can fix the timeline later. I’ll type up notes after each meeting, and then I’ll write a draft. You will have some input, but I’ll make the ultimate decisions for the final draft.”

  Natasha raised an eyebrow and then smiled. “Yes, that sounds fine. You are very straightforward, aren’t you? Not too much for small talk.”

  “I am. I think it tends to prevent any misunderstanding.”

  “I agree. I despise reporters who try to trick their way into your secrets. I assume I can request that some things be off the record, should discussions meander?”

  “Of course.”

  “Before we begin, there are some things I want from you.”

  Taken a little by surprise, Celia sat back and studied the actress. “I’ll see what I can do. What do you want?”

  “First, I want this to be a conversation. There is no one truly intelligent to have a conversation with here. Yes, I will answer your questions, but
I want to know you as well.”

  “I don’t usually get personal with interviewees.”

  “I’m going to be executed. Who would I gossip to?”

  “It’s just a professional boundary.’

  Natasha sighed. “It won’t be much of an interview with neither of us talking.”

  “Perhaps I’m not the best choice to write your story,” Celia challenged.

  “You are aware that you are the only reporter whom I have allowed access?’

  “I am aware that you reached out to me and invited me to the prison to interview you, and that your letter didn’t mention any requirement that I bare my soul.”

  “So dramatic,” Natasha shook her head. “That seems unlike you. Perhaps I misjudged you, and this was a mistake.”

  “Perhaps it was. I don’t commiserate and share feelings. I write stories based in fact.” Celia gathered her recorder and stood to leave.

  Natasha started, and Celia couldn’t tell if she was angry or impressed. “Wait. Sit down,” Natasha finally said. “I won’t ask for any secrets. You may have your boundaries. But if I am going to tell you mine, I can at least ask about your career, or maybe you can tell me about your latest roll in the hay, as they say.”

  “I’m not the most exciting hay roller, but sure. We can talk generalities.”

  “Good. Now for the more important request. Bring me cigarettes. Good ones.”

  “Are death row inmates allowed to smoke?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just bring them.”

  “No problem.” Celia clicked her pen and wrote the date at the top of the page. “So, tell me about your life, your career, wherever you would like to start.”

  Natasha sighed and sat back in her chair. “I am sure you know from your research that my family came here when I was small. My father moved from Russia to England, and then my mother, father, and I moved here. I believe I was around 6 years old.”

  “Do you remember much of your life before moving to the US?”

  “Not too much,” Natasha replied, picking at a string on her shirt. “It was my father who most wanted to come here. He grew up in Russia, and I think Britain was not quite far enough away for him.”

  “And your father had a business?”

  “He did, but first he worked for a university. That job provided the visas. He worked long hours, and my mother stayed home. I went to a neighborhood school.”

  “I see. So you went to public school.”

  “I did. I went to primary school and elementary school. Then I began attending a private school after I started modeling.” Celia folded her arms. “Your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “Tell me about your parents.”

  Pressing pause on the recorder, Celia began. “Dad was a dentist. Mom was a teacher. Both were from apple pie families.”

  “And was your family apple pie?”

  “Well, Mom did love to cook.” Celia chuckled. “Dad liked to drink. It was what you’d expect of middle America.”

  “Interesting. So are they still married?”

  “Not since I was twelve.”

  Natasha pushed her chair forward. “This doesn’t feel like a conversation.”

  “Dad left for one of his hygienists. Very predictable.” Celia sighed. “Mom stayed single. Our lifestyle changed dramatically. I chose a college across the country. Built a career. Never really looked back.”

  “Only part of the story,” Natasha scolded. “But fair enough. Where were we?”

  “Ah.” Celia adjusted the recorder. “So the modeling. I have read some vague stories about how it began. Was it something you sought out? I know an agency approached you but was it a goal that you or your family had?”

  “Honestly, no. My father told me often I was very beautiful, but it wasn’t until someone asked him if I had tried modeling that the idea came to him. Once I realized that a modeling career could mean travel, money, and getting away from the boredom of school from time to time, it interested me. So we signed a contract with my first agency.”

  “This all happened quickly?”

  Natasha nodded. “It did. My father had photos taken of me, and we went to several events. I don’t know how he managed the invitations. Someone who knew someone saw me at these events. My father was thrilled when they offered me a contract.”

  “Yes, I read about that. They signed you and one other girl, correct? The two of you became close friends.”

  Natasha folded her arms. “Margaret, yes.” Celia noticed a cooler tone. “We frequently worked together. Photographers liked the way we looked together, with my fair hair and skin and her dark hair and olive complexion.”

  “I’ve seen some of the photos. You two did make a striking combination. So working so much together, you must have been close.”

  “Oh yes, very,” Natasha replied. “We spent a lot of time together.”

  “Was there a rivalry between you?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Natasha said.

  Oh, yes you are. “I mean, you were both young, both new talent. I know you worked together a lot, but surely there were times when you competed. Did that affect your friendship?”

  “Not at all,” Natasha quickly answered. “As I said, we spent much time together, and we did most of our work together. Each of us did other things too, of course, but that is part of the business.”

  Celia paused and reviewed her notes. “Yes, you did work together very regularly until your first runway show. The two of you competed for that spot.”

  Natasha shook her head. “We did not so much compete as understand that there would not be room for both of us. It happens at work.” Natasha spread her hands on the table. “ In the end, the producers selected me because Margaret was in the hospital.”

  “That’s right. Relapse of an eating disorder, I believe.”

  “Such a shame. We discussed her concern over weight gain. I had noticed that her eating habits had become laxer. To stay competitive, you must be vigilant about your size. I suppose knowing she was teetering on the edge sent her into more anorexia.”

  Celia wrote quickly in her notebook. “In the end, that show was a turning point in your career.”

  “It was. I knew it would be.” Natasha sighed. “But do you truly want to know about my modeling career? It became boring.”

  “I’m just laying a bit of a foundation. The more I understand about your early life and career, the more I can understand what came after.”

  “You mean the murders.”

  “Yes,” Celia replied. “You must know one of the biggest questions people ask in these crimes is what made the person into a murderer. They all want to recognize the signs.”

  Natasha laughed. “Yes, they think if they can unlock the psychological mystery, they can catch people early or prevent crimes.”

  “It’s a popular subject that fascinates many. More than one television series has cashed in on the fascination.”

  “Those television shows,” Natasha laughed. “They do all seem to fit a certain caricature, don’t they?”

  “Of course. The exaggerations make it dramatic. People make a study of the psychology of murder. Of course, the goal of my piece isn’t to psychoanalyze serial killers. I only want to understand you.”

  “I wonder if you could understand,” Natasha mused. “None of the other reporters who begged to interview me would have. They were so focused on the tragedy, the drama. They wanted to use their gift with words to elicit some display of emotion, I am sure. You know how some journalists love making their subjects cry.”

  Celia laughed at that. It was true that many of her colleagues felt a story wasn’t a story unless it had made someone cry or someone angry. It was one of the reasons journalism had stopped being what it used to be: reporting of facts. Celia never understood it. “True. And that isn’t the kind of story you wanted.”

  “Not at all,” Natasha said firmly. “I do not want my entire life dissected with emotion. Languishing an
d hand-wringing change nothing about the past or the future.” Natasha sat back and folded her arms. “Okay, it’s your turn again. What about you? How did your career begin?”

  “My story isn’t nearly as interesting.”

  “Somehow I don’t agree. Everyone’s career has decisive moments, turning points. I would be interested in hearing about yours. After all—” Natasha spread her hands—“Who am I going to tell?”

  The final knock came, and Keith walked into the room. Smiling, Celia tapped her notebook with the end of her pen. “Maybe next time. I appreciate you talking with me. I’ll see you next week?”

  “I very much look forward to it,” Natasha said. A second officer walked in and escorted Natasha out of the room, and then Keith walked with Celia to the security doors.

  Once back in the waiting area, the desk clerk gave back her phone and purse. Celia placed the recorder and notebook in her bag, waved to the clerk, and exited the building. Driving to her hotel, she assessed the initial interview. It had almost been boring. Somehow Celia had expected more. She thought the actress might toy with her or probe her for more personal information. True, Natasha had asked about her early career, but she didn’t push. She’d probably ask again, though. You’ve watched Silence of the Lambs too many times, Celia.

  Celia settled into her hotel room and ordered room service. Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it. She’d received quite a few messages since the CEO expose came out, and she was tired of responding “no comment” or reminding one of the businessman’s attorneys that he was the one who granted the interview and spilled his secrets. Was it Celia’s fault the man had no self-control? There were also the usual bleeding hearts wanting her to advocate on their behalf. That wasn’t what Celia did. She told the story. She knew her manner seemed cold to some of her colleagues. But emotion cheapened a story, Celia believed. Getting emotionally involved was not part of the job.

  Her room service order came, and as Celia ate her salad, she listened to the recording. There were always things she noticed about conversations after the fact that helped her compose the next interview. In this case, Natasha had revealed a little more than Celia thought. From the tone and mood of her voice to the way she stated things, there were clues in what she said. Natasha’s tone was controlled throughout much of the interview, but there were a few times she sounded tense or as if she was working out what to say. Celia paused the recording when she came to the part about Margaret and her relapse. Something about it seemed off as if Natasha wasn’t saying everything.