Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller) Read online

  Feeling foolish nonetheless, he waded toward the pool steps and climbed out, spotting his Glock on the cement a couple yards away. Surprisingly, despite the commotion, there didn’t seem to be any neighbors gawking at him.

  Snatching it up, he returned it to its holster, then, keeping his arm to his forehead, moved across the lot to his car. Popping the trunk, he took off his tie, peeled off his coat and shirt, then wrung out the shirt, dribbling rancid pool water into the gutter.

  His forehead was still bleeding like crazy.

  He found the standard first-aid kit tucked in a corner of the trunk, opened it, unrolled a wad of gauze, and pressed it to his wound. The gauze immediately turned crimson.

  Head wounds were always a pain in the ass.

  Dumping the pad, he unrolled more gauze, pressed it to his forehead and did his best to tape it in place. Quickly slipping his damp shirt back on, he closed the trunk and crossed back toward the apartment building’s stairway alcove.

  He was feeling a little woozy.

  Working his way up to the second floor again, he took the walkway toward apartment 2F. As he went, he looked down past the railing to see how far he’d fallen, fairly certain that if he’d hit cement instead of water, he’d be dead.

  Cursing himself for allowing the woman to get the upper hand on him, he pushed through the door to 2F and immediately understood why the two had been so anxious to leave.

  The apartment itself was nothing special. A few sticks of cheap furniture, a stereo and TV, and a small kitchenette. The place looked lived-in but undisturbed.

  The smell, however, was unmistakable.

  Following his nose, Blackburn navigated a narrow hallway until he reached the source:

  A small bathroom. Just enough room for a sink, a toilet, a tub, and not much more.

  Except, of course, for the bloody body parts stacked inside the tub.

  Hands, feet, arms, legs, torso.

  And the head, which was facing the doorway, lifeless eyes frozen open and staring directly at Blackburn.

  The lifeless eyes of Todd Hastert.

  39

  THE PARAMEDIC TOSSED the bloody gauze aside and put a butterfly bandage on Blackburn’s forehead.

  “Cut’s pretty deep,” he said. “You might want to come to the hospital, get some stitches.”

  “Maybe later.”

  Blackburn thought about what that would look like, imagining the cops at the station house calling him Frankenstein. Not that he cared what they thought, but it would just be another in a long list of annoyances he’d have to endure.

  He thanked the paramedic and headed back upstairs to where Rossbach, Worsley, and a couple other task force members—along with a crime scene unit—were crowded into Todd Hastert’s tiny apartment.

  Worsley scowled at him when he walked in the door. “Thanks for dripping pool water all over the crime scene, genius.”

  Blackburn ignored him and approached Rossbach, whose gaze immediately went to Blackburn’s forehead.

  “Jesus. Half an inch lower and you woulda lost your—”

  “I know, I know. You call Carmody? She’ll want to be part of this.”

  “There’s already enough cooks in this kitchen.”

  “So what’re we cooking?”

  Rossbach sighed. “Assistant M.E. says it’s there. The mark. We’re definitely looking at another Vincent hit.”

  Blackburn shook his head. “I’m not buying it. Do we have a time of death?”

  “Sometime last night, between ten and midnight.”

  “So this guy was done first. Before Janovic.”

  “It’s looking that way.”

  “Makes me think it’s even less likely that Vincent did this. Two in one night? Not really his style.”

  “What the fuck is his style, Frank? I’ve been thinking about this sonofabitch for over a year now and I still can’t figure him out.”

  “Don’t forget the two victims knew each other. You take a look at Hastert’s bank records, I’ll lay odds you’ll find some recent deposits. Somebody paying him off.”

  “For what?”

  “Same as Janovic. To keep his mouth shut. They were partners.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s Tolan,” Blackburn said. “Hastert used to work at the medical examiner’s office. Which means he could’ve known Vincent’s M.O. Either he or Janovic leaked crime scene details to Tolan, and when they figured out what he used them for, they put the finger on him.”

  “And you think Tolan got tired of paying, so he did this?”

  “That’s the long and the short of it.”

  “Where’s the connection? How does Tolan even know these guys?”

  “Good question.”

  “Well, until you work it out, hot shot, I’m running on the assumption that Vincent’s our man.”

  “Big mistake, Jerry. Vincent’s in the wind and has been for a year.”

  Rossbach snorted. “I think it’s safe to say you’re in the minority with that opinion. But I won’t hold it against you.”

  Fuck you, Blackburn thought, but said nothing. Instead, he just shrugged and pushed past him, moving deeper into the apartment.

  Navigating the narrow hallway, he passed the bathroom, where crime scene techs were carefully cataloging and bagging the body parts.

  Hastert’s bedroom had about as much personality as the rest of the place. A queen-sized bed, dresser and nightstand. The bed unmade. Dirty clothes scattered on the floor.

  If Hastert was collecting money, he wasn’t spending it here.

  Taking out a pair of latex gloves he’d gotten from the crime scene kit in the trunk of his car, Blackburn snapped them on and started working the room, opening and closing drawers in the dresser, finding a sparse assortment of socks and underwear, blue jeans, T-shirts. Nothing even remotely interesting.

  In a corner near the bed were three stacks of paperback books. Blackburn crouched next to them and studied the spines. Crime novels, medical thrillers, legal thrillers, horror stories. He recognized a few of the writers. His second wife had been a book nut and some of it had rubbed off on him.

  He knew this was a long shot, but taking them one by one, he leafed through the pages, looking for makeshift bookmarks: bank stubs, credit card receipts, anything that might possibly connect the guy to Tolan.

  Nothing.

  Moving to the nightstand, he pulled the drawer open and found another paperback—something called The Cleaner—along with a pair of reading glasses and two prescription bottles.

  Picking up one of the bottles, he glanced at the label. Twenty capsules of Vicodin. County General Pharmacy. Prescribed by a Dr. Wilson.

  Returning it to the drawer, he picked up the second bottle. The date on the label was a year old. County General Pharmacy again, this one for Paxil—which Blackburn knew to be a depression killer, like Prozac. The name of the doctor was Soren.

  Soren, Blackburn thought. That name sounded familiar. Where had he heard it before?

  Then it hit him.

  Hadn’t Tolan once been partnered with a guy named Soren? Back when he was in private practice?

  Blackburn was almost sure of it. But if anybody would know, it would be Carmody.

  Unclipping his cell phone from his belt, he started to dial before he realized his dunk in the pool had killed it.

  Shit.

  Crossing back to the hallway, he flagged a crime scene tech. A guy named Abernathy. “You got a phone I can use?”

  “Sure, Frank.” Abernathy dug his phone out of his pocket, handed it over, and Blackburn quickly punched in Carmody’s number.

  Her line rang several times, then switched over to voice mail.

  What the hell? Why wasn’t she answering?

  After the message came on and the line beeped, Blackburn said, “Hey, Sue, call dispatch and have them contact me as soon as you get this. My cell phone’s kaput and I’m thinking I may have found something here.”

 
; He clicked off, knowing his next step was to pick up a new phone, change his clothes, then visit Dr. Soren. He dialed again, and when De Mello picked up, he said, “I need an address.”

  “Glad you called,” De Mello said. “Got a curious little morsel here for you.”

  “Oh? What’s up?”

  “I finally heard back from the company who supplied that photo clip of Bikini Girl. They gave me the name of the photographer who sold it to them.”

  “And? Do we know who the model was?”

  “No,” De Mello said, “and I doubt we ever will.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the photographer is dead.”

  “Wonderful. Is there any way we can get hold of his records?”

  “You might want to ask Tolan about that. The photographer was his wife.”

  40

  LISA HAD LEFT four more messages for Michael and still no word from him. In the time since he’d left, the police had gone as well, without explanation. Then Clayton Simm showed up, fresh from a shower.

  She spotted him, coming in through one of the private entrances. She knew Michael thought highly of him, but she’d never really understood it. Thought he was a bit too arrogant for his own good.

  “What brings you here in the middle of the afternoon?”

  “You’re lucky I’m here at all,” he said, tucking his card key into his breast pocket. “Cops called me. They got a witness they want me to look at. I checked her in this morning.”

  “SR-three? The Jane Doe?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I thought Michael was covering that.”

  “So did I. But that asshole cop—whatshisname—told me there was some kind of conflict of interest. Says Michael wants me to take over.”

  “What conflict?” Lisa asked, immediately thinking of Jane Doe’s resemblance to Abby. For some reason, the old man’s words flitted through her head. Un emprenteuse.

  “Beats the hell out of me. I just do what I’m told.”

  “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the police are gone.”

  Clayton’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “I was down in the basement doing a supply check and when I came back they’d all packed up and left.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Do you know how hard it was for me to drag myself out of bed?”

  “All they left behind was a uniform posted at the Jane Doe’s door, and he won’t tell me a thing.”

  “What about Michael? Is he in there with her?”

  She shook her head. “Gone too. Left before lunch. I haven’t seen him since, and he won’t answer his phone. To tell you the truth, I’m pretty worried about him.”

  “So what the hell is going on?”

  “You tell me. I’m just a nurse, remember? I couldn’t even get Michael to spill.”

  Clayton’s frown deepened. He was not a happy man. Probably needed his beauty sleep.

  “Fuck it,” he said, then started off toward the seclusion ward.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m here, I might as well check in on her. See what all the fuss is about.”

  THEY WENT IN together, looking through the glass at Jane Doe, who barely seemed to have moved since the last time Lisa had been in here.

  “Hey, hey,” Cassie said, the moment she saw Clayton. “What brings you out of your cave?”

  Lisa had always suspected Cassie had a crush on Clayton, but whenever they were together—which wasn’t often thanks to opposing shifts—she chided him like a younger sister.

  As the two exchanged quips, Lisa tuned them out and kept her gaze on Jane Doe. Try as she might, she couldn’t get what the old man had told her out of her head. He was certifiable, no doubt about that. But while she had never been the superstitious type, there was something about this woman—the resemblance that somehow seemed more than a resemblance—that gave weight to his words.

  Un emprenteuse. A borrower.

  Could it be true? Could Abby be in there somewhere, struggling for control?

  “You’re out of your friggin’ mind,” Clayton said.

  Feeling as if her thoughts had suddenly been invaded, Lisa returned her focus to Cassie and Clayton’s conversation. Clayton seemed more agitated than ever.

  “I’m just telling you what I saw,” Cassie said, looking defensive. “Dr. Tolan saw it too. Both of her eyes are brown.”

  “Impossible. Heterochromia isn’t something you just . . .”

  He paused then, his gaze once again resting on Jane Doe. He moved closer to the glass. “Is this some kind of practical joke? Who is that woman?”

  Lisa joined him at the window, but couldn’t figure out what he was staring at. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I’m being punked, is what. Any minute now some idiot from That ’70s Show is gonna poke his head in here and say boo.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That isn’t the same woman I examined this morning. Look at her shoulder.”

  “Come on, Clay,” Cassie said. “You’re being ridiculous. I’ve been on watch all day and . . .”

  Now she paused, her jaw going slack. She punched a key on her keyboard and the computer screen switched to camera view, an overhead shot of the patient. Clicking the mouse, she zoomed in on Jane Doe’s left shoulder.

  “Holy crap,” she said. “That’s impossible.”

  Clayton turned away from the glass. “I don’t know what kind of game you people are playing, but you can tell Michael or that knucklehead cop or whoever’s behind this that I don’t appreciate dragging my ass out of bed to be made a fool of.”

  He headed out the door, Lisa watching him, thoroughly bewildered. “Would somebody like to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Cassie pointed to the computer monitor. “Her tattoo. The Hello Kitty tattoo.”

  “What tattoo? I don’t see one.”

  “That’s the thing,” Cassie said. “It’s gone.”

  FIVE

  The Man Who Tempted Fate

  41

  IN THE DREAM, she was with him.

  They were walking together through the darkness, careful to stay close, her hands tightly clutching his arm. She was frightened—they both were—but in a good way. The kind of fright you feel on a roller coaster or watching a scary movie.

  They came to a stop in front of the old hospital, its looming malevolence making them press a little closer together. The open front doors were missing, and the black hole that stood in their place was like an invitation to some dark hell.

  After a moment, Abby held up her camera—the Canon Digital SLR she carried with her everywhere she went—and said, “I’m going in.”

  This surprised Tolan, but he nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, Michael, you have to stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “Too dangerous,” she said. “You have to wait your turn.”

  Tolan stared at that black doorway. The “good” fright he’d felt only a moment ago didn’t seem so good anymore.

  “I don’t want to wait,” he said. “I want to be with you.”

  “You’ll be with me soon enough. You have to break away for now. You have to let go.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  She smiled at him then, leaned up and kissed him. “I don’t want to either, darling. But it isn’t about us. It isn’t our choice.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s nothing to understand. It’s the way. The Rhythm. The heartbeat.”

  “The heartbeat?” Tolan said. “What does that mean?”

  She let go of him then, started toward the doorway. He tried to grab her arm, but his hand went right through her, as if she were made of vapor.

  “Abby, wait.”

  “I’ll see you again, Michael. I’m closer than you think. Much closer. Just ask the old man. He knows.”

  “Old man? What old man?”

  She stood at the doorway now, a step away fr
om the darkness. “This is where it happens, Michael. Where it all comes together and balance is restored.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Listen . . . ” she said. “Don’t you hear it? Someone’s calling you.”

  At first he wasn’t sure what she was talking about. Then a distant buzzing filled his ears, coming in short, steady spurts. He turned, looking for the source of it. Saw nothing but the night. The trees. The mountains.

  “I’ll see you soon, Michael.”

  He turned back to her and her camera was raised to her eye, pointed at him. Then the flash went off, momentarily blinding him.

  When it finally cleared she was gone.

  “Abby?”

  He stared at that darkened doorway, wondering if she’d ever really been there at all.

  HE AWOKE TO the buzzing sound.

  His phone, vibrating.

  He was lying on a floor, but he wasn’t sure whose floor until he sat upright and the world spinning around him began to slow and come into focus.

  Then he recognized the place immediately. The oriental rugs. The off-white sofa and chairs. The abstract painting on the wall above the fireplace. The carpeted stairs leading to the bedroom. The steady sound of waves rolling in.

  The beach house. Lisa’s beach house.

  He was sitting on her living-room floor.

  But how had he gotten here?

  His body ached, as if every one of his muscles had been hammered with a baseball bat. His jaw was on fire. Even his toes ached.

  Realizing it was almost dark outside, he checked his watch: 5:30 P.M.

  Jesus.

  The last thing he remembered was sitting in his car in the hospital parking lot, trying to recover from a sudden panic attack.

  Mama got trouble

  Mama got sin

  Mama got bills to pay again.

  But that had been close to noon, which meant he’d somehow lost over five hours.

  Five full hours.

  Every one of them a blank.

  His phone was still buzzing. He turned, looking around until he saw it on the floor near the sofa. He was about to reach for it when it stopped, kicking over to voice mail.