Would that be enough?
What about podcasting? That seemed to be a thing, and she could do a twist on crime solving, here from the comfort of her own home.
For now, though, she sent her story digitally to Fink, who would look it over, approve it, most likely, and it would be on theSentinel’s website before the actual newspaper was published. That way Fink was satisfied. They could break the story online, and other outlets would pick it up, but theSentineland Nikki would get the credit. Later, the actual print edition would land on subscribers’ doorsteps.
The industry was changing.
Nikki should change with it. Again, she said, “Adapt or die.” It seemed to be her mantra these days.
Once she submitted her story, she leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms over her head, but that reminded her of Naomi’s outstretched arms and the stone clasped in her fingers, so she dropped her arms. But her mind was still spinning.
Eleven.
What was the significance of the number cut into the stone?
She scratched notes to herself on a legal pad.
Billy Huber, with the number nine.
Mavis Greenlee, a five.
Jeanne LaRoux, number one.
And now Naomi Kittle, eleven.
Obviously, the numbers were significant to the killer. They meant something, but what?
She scribbled them down in the order of the deaths: 5, 9, 1, 11.
Not in normal numerical order. All odd numbers.
Were they some kind of sequence?
A code?
She switched them around. Reversed the numbers and couldn’t help but wonder if there were other victims, as yet unfound, who’d been assigned other digits.
Why in Arabic and Hebrew?
What was the significance of that?
Again she wrote the symbols on her notepad, this time in Hebrew.
But they meant nothing to her.
And yet, the killer had ensured that the Hebrew numbers were included. Why?
“Come on, Nikki, figure it out.” She googled the numbers, switched them around, looked up sequences of odd numbers.
And came up with nothing.
“Damn it.”
In frustration, she threw her pen onto the desk. It clattered on the desktop and rolled off and across the floor to the bookcase.
Startled, Arlo lifted his head and gave a soft “woof.”
“It’s all right, buddy,” she said. She gave him a quick pat, then retrieved the pen and straightened, hearing her spine pop in the process. She noticed the Bible on the third shelf of the case, at eye level. Leather-bound and worn, it had once belonged to her grandmother. The old woman had spent a half an hour every morning, sipping tea on her veranda or in her living-room easy chair, reading verses aloud, her own way of meditation.