Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller) Read online

  Truth be told, Blackburn had never been a particularly popular addition to the unit, a fact he attributed to his unbridled insensitivity and severe lack of social skills.

  His ex-partner, Susan Carmody, an uptight Republican Goldilocks who was more suited to a career with FOX News than a detective squad, seemed to take offense to his occasional remarks about her rear end—which, Republican or not, was quite formidable.

  Blackburn had grown up with four older brothers, in a household where such lapses of decorum were not only encouraged, but served as a measure of your masculinity.

  So could she really blame him?

  Apparently so. Six months after they partnered up, Carmody stopped just short of filing a grievance against him and transfered to Homicide. Rumor had it she was already screwing a White Shirt and was up for promotion. Seemed she had no trouble using the rear end she didn’t want Blackburn making remarks about, but that was neither here nor there.

  Bottom line, the unit was short a body and he was an army of one right now. And when it came down to it, that was just fine by him. That way, he didn’t have to spend every ten seconds wondering whether he was properly navigating the battlefield of political correctness.

  Besides, Blackburn wasn’t here to win a popularity contest. All he wanted to do was work the case and make a collar.

  He looked at the body again. “I can already see this one’s gonna be loads of fun. You got a cigarette on you?”

  “I thought you quit.”

  “A temporary solution to a long-term problem.”

  “Uh-huh,” Kat said. “You know what they say, don’t you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s just an oral fixation.”

  Blackburn grinned. “You speaking from experience?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you chew on a carrot or something.”

  “You got a carrot on you?”

  Pendergast shook her head, stifled a smile. “You’re too much, Detective.” Starting back across the courtyard, she said, “I’m gonna go give Hogan a hand.”

  Blackburn watched her go, his eyes fixed on what was, without a doubt, another formidable rear end.

  Careful, big guy.

  Sometimes they bite.

  DETERMINING TIME OF death was a science that Blackburn had no real interest in understanding.

  Oh, he had learned the basics: body temperature, corneal cloudiness, potassium leak rate, parasite infestation, but anything beyond that was a foreign language to him and he’d never been good at geek. All he was interested in was the final determination, and preferred to be spared a detailed road map of how the medical examiner got there.

  Some might say that made him a lousy investigator. And who knows? Maybe they’d be right. But Blackburn had proven more than once that he wasn’t all that concerned with what some might say. He’d cleared enough cases to shut most of them up.

  The assistant M.E. assigned to the case, a chisel-jawed Swede named Mats Hansen, was something of a wiz at pinpointing time of death. He usually proffered a guess right there at the scene that, more often than not, proved to be accurate.

  “So what do you say, Mats? What’s the magic number?”

  Hansen was crouched over the body, staring intently at Janovic’s bloody chest. “This one’s pretty fresh. I’d say two hours, give or take.”

  Blackburn checked his watch. “So . . . what? Around midnight?”

  “Glad to know you can subtract.”

  The world was full of wiseasses.

  “I wouldn’t want to second-guess anybody here, but is it safe to assume he was stabbed to death?”

  “Cardio-respiratory arrest is more likely,” Hansen said, then smiled. “Caused, of course, by the stabbing.”

  Comedians, too.

  “Thanks for the clarification. What kind of weapon are we looking for?”

  Hansen leaned in for a closer look at one of the puncture wounds. “A single-edged blade,” he said. “I’m guessing a steak knife, about half an inch wide. We’ve got six fairly forceful hits to the chest and abdomen. At least two of them pierced the breastbone, probably ruptured the heart.”

  “Wonderful,” Blackburn said. “He didn’t happen to spell the killer’s name in his own blood, did he?”

  Hansen, being infinitely more adept at social niceties than Blackburn, chuckled politely and said, “Sorry, Agatha, no such luck. My guess is he was dead after the first hit. The rest were just for good measure. A lot of rage there. And check out the hands and forearms.”

  Blackburn looked. “No defense wounds.”

  Hansen nodded. “Happened so fast he didn’t have time to react. No sign of forced entry or a struggle of any kind. Front security gate wasn’t touched. This guy knew his attacker.” He gestured to a crimson smear on the floor. “And it looks like we have a partial footprint.”

  “Oh?” Blackburn crouched down, studying the smear, but couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Or heels or toes, for that matter.

  “And when I say foot,” Hansen continued, “I mean barefoot. Whoever left it wasn’t wearing shoes, and it’s most likely a woman.”

  Blackburn stared at the smear a moment longer, wondering if Hansen had quit smoking too, because you’d have to consume a whole shitload of carrots to see all that.

  But if Hansen was right, then the rather obvious theory that had been percolating in Blackburn’s brain—that this had been the work of a jilted gay lover—had just fallen victim to a busted pilot light.

  Hansen launched into his usual disclaimer about providing a more definitive analysis once he got back to the lab, but Blackburn tuned him out. If the murder happened around midnight, then one of the other tenants might’ve been awake and seen something useful, like Cinderella fleeing the scene without her slippers.

  Who knows, maybe he’d get lucky with this one. Not that he and Luck were on speaking terms, but you never knew.

  No sooner had he thought this than his cell phone rang.

  It was Kat Pendergast. “I’ve got two words for you and I think you’re gonna like them.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense too long.”

  “Naked lady,” Kat said.

  Blackburn paused. “There’s a couple ways I could respond to that. What exactly does it mean?”

  “I just got a call from dispatch. Seems a cab driver almost ran down a naked woman about two blocks from here on The Avenue. She’s covered with blood.”

  Blackburn felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “I kid you not,” Kat said. “And when the cabbie stopped to help her? She tried to stab him.”

  3

  SOLOMON AND CLARENCE weren’t having much luck finding Myra. They tried the usual haunts: the strip mall that held a Rite-Aid drugstore, a Von’s supermarket, a fast-food Chinese joint, and a Taco Bell. Then they checked the 24-hour laundromat behind it, where a lot of folks gathered to get warm on chilly nights like this one.

  No sign of her.

  They wandered up The Avenue, checking the dark doorways of the discount dental offices and pawn shops. Still nothing.

  Where the hell had she gotten to?

  They were about to give up when Solomon spotted the flashing lights of a police cruiser and an ambulance up near DeAnza Drive, where The Avenue abruptly turned from brown-skinned working class to white yuppie paradise.

  A couple of paramedics were loading a woman onto a gurney in the back of the ambulance, her bony bare legs hanging out of the blanket wrapped around her. She looked unconscious.

  “Shit,” Solomon said. “We’re too late.”

  “What?” Clarence squinted into the darkness. He’d broken his glasses a couple weeks ago and Solomon knew he couldn’t see worth a damn. “Is that Myra?”

  “How many white women you know walkin’ around butt-naked at two o’clock in the A.M.?” He gestured for Clarence to follow. “But let’s go make sure.”

  Clarence didn’t move. “I ain’t goin
’ near no cops.”

  “They got their hands full. They ain’t gonna be fussin’ with the likes of you.”

  “That’s right,” Clarence said, “ ’cause I ain’t stupid enough to get that close.” He turned and started in the opposite direction.

  “Come on, man. Why you always gotta run?”

  “That’s what keeps me alive. I ain’t goin’ down for no junkie-ass whore. ’Specially a dead one.”

  “If she was dead, they’d be loadin’ her in the back of a coroner’s van. Least we can do is find out where they’re takin’ her.”

  “Be my guest,” Clarence said. “But count me out.”

  A moment later, he was across the street and gone.

  Solomon shook his head, wondering what Clarence’s tears had been about. Did he care about Myra or what? Then a sudden realization hit him. Maybe Myra hadn’t shot herself up, after all. Maybe it was Clarence who gave her the needle. She goes flatline, and it was panic, not grief, making him cry.

  Solomon had always thought Myra was too good for the sonofabitch anyway.

  He worked his way up the block toward the police cruiser and ambulance. There was a Seaside Cab parked several yards away, its driver leaning against the left front fender, quietly sucking on a cigarette.

  By the time Solomon got close, a late-model sedan had pulled up to the scene, and a big guy in a suit and tie climbed out. A plainclothes detective.

  What the hell did he want?

  One of the uniformed cops called him Blackburn and they exchanged pleasantries that, to Solomon’s mind, weren’t all that pleasant.

  A small crowd had gathered, a lot of folks standing around in their pj’s, and Solomon did his best to blend in. He still had Myra’s filthy clothes tucked under one arm. A coupla house hens took one look at him, crinkled their noses, and stepped aside, giving him wide berth.

  So much for that plan.

  The cop named Blackburn took a look into the back of the ambulance, then turned to one of the uniforms as he gestured toward the cab driver. “I hear she tried to stab him.”

  Solomon’s ears pricked up. Myra?

  “So he says,” the uniform told Blackburn. “Came at him with a pair of scissors.”

  “Scissors?” Blackburn seemed surprised.

  “That’s right.” The uniform went to the front seat of the cruiser and brought out a plastic bag carrying a bloodied pair of sewing shears.

  Blackburn took the bag, studied it for a moment, then handed it back. “He say what direction she came from?”

  The uniform pointed across the street, which was lined with apartment houses. “Over that way. Looks like she could’ve cut right through from Hopi Lane.”

  Blackburn turned to one of the paramedics. “How bad is she hurt?”

  “She’s got a pretty good knot on her cheek where the cab driver thumped her, but the blood isn’t hers, if that’s what you’re asking. Got some cuts and bruises, but nothing that would cause that much bleeding.”

  Hearing this, Solomon felt relieved. If that was Myra in there, at least she was okay. But what was all this bullshit about her trying to stab somebody?

  Not the Myra he knew.

  He wished he could get a closer look.

  “We’ve gotta sit on her until the assistant M.E. gets here,” Blackburn said. “I need a sample of that blood.”

  “We should’ve been on our way to the ER by now.”

  “And I should be in bed with a beautiful blonde, but that ain’t likely to happen anytime soon.”

  Before the paramedic could protest, Blackburn turned and walked over to the cab driver, flashing his badge. They exchanged a few words and, from Solomon’s vantage point, it looked like Blackburn was trying to bum a cigarette.

  Solomon turned his attention away from them and looked in toward the woman on the gurney, figuring now was as good a time as any to get a better look. He stepped forward, moving closer to the ambulance. He wasn’t halfway to it when one of the uniforms spotted him and came over.

  “Hey, hey, what’re you up to?”

  “I think she’s a friend of mine.”

  The uniform looked him over, barely disguising his contempt. “You been drinking, pops? Figure maybe you can sneak a peek at a naked lady?”

  Solomon ignored him. “Her name is Myra.”

  “Well, what do you know.” The uniform turned to his partner. “You hear that, Jerry? She’s got a name and everything—and it ain’t Tina Tits.”

  His partner chuckled and Solomon took an instant dislike to both of them, the way they were disrespecting Myra. He had the terrible urge to lash out, but kept himself under control.

  The cop named Blackburn was coming over now, no cigarette in evidence, and he didn’t look happy. “Toomey, do us all a favor and shut your fuckin’ yap.”

  The partner, Jerry, quickly averted his eyes, but the one called Toomey shot Blackburn a look. There wasn’t any love lost between these two. For a moment, Solomon thought they might come to blows, then Toomey backed off, joining Jerry over by their patrol car.

  Blackburn turned to Solomon. “You say you know this woman?”

  Solomon nodded. “I think so. I just need a better look.”

  Blackburn gestured and they walked over to the ambulance. “Go ahead.”

  Solomon glanced around, felt all the eyes on him, then stepped up into the back of the ambulance.

  The woman had blood on her and some of it had soaked into the blanket. Her left shoulder was exposed and Solomon immediately recognized the faded Hello Kitty tattoo adorning it.

  Myra had once told him that they’d called her that when she was modeling. Kitty. She’d walk into a studio and they’d all go, “Hello, Kitty.” Kinda laughing when they said it.

  He let his gaze drift up to her face, but was surprised by what he saw—and it wasn’t the blood that startled him.

  Taking a couple involuntary steps backward, he almost fell out of the ambulance.

  The cop named Blackburn steadied him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’,” Solomon said. “She . . . she looks different, is all.”

  “Different? Is she your friend or not?”

  Solomon was momentarily at a loss for words. How could this be? When he found his voice, he said, “I thought she was, but now I ain’t so sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Solomon swallowed. “That looks like her body, all right. But there’s something wrong with her face.”

  Blackburn frowned at him. He looked as if he was about to respond when the woman’s eyes flew open, as wide and frightened as a trapped animal’s. Her mouth started moving, words tumbling out so rapidly they were barely intelligible:

  “. . . a lie stands on one leg, the truth on two . . .”

  What the hell?

  “. . . a lie stands on one leg, the truth on two . . .”

  Her gaze focused on Solomon.

  “Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a . . .”

  Then, with a cry of rage like Solomon had never before heard, she sprang up from the gurney and lunged at him.

  BLACKBURN HAD NEVER seen anyone move so fast.

  One minute she was babbling incoherently, the next she was launching herself at the old homeless guy like a charge from a shotgun.

  Blackburn immediately grabbed for her, but she spun on him, catching him off-guard, swinging a bloody fist at his head.

  He stumbled back, and before he knew it she was out of the ambulance and running. Toomey and his partner and the EMTs all stood around with their heads up their asses as Blackburn regained his footing and took off after her.

  She plowed through the crowd, screams and shouts erupting around her, then cut diagonally across the road, heading for a narrow side street crowded with parked cars and boxy, rundown houses.

  Blackburn heard an engine start up behind him—the patrol officers finally getting their shit together—but the psycho bitch cut sideways, heading
into the darkness between two houses.

  Jerking his Glock out of its holster, Blackburn followed, picking up speed, then slowing as he reached the mouth of the passageway. He listened for sounds of movement, but all he could hear was the commotion behind him, the distant barking of a dog, and—

  —what?

  Psycho Bitch, babbling again. Barely a whisper.

  “A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two, a lie stands on one leg, the truth on two, a lie stands on one leg, the truth on . . .”

  Blackburn took out his Mini-Mag, flicked it on, and pointed it into the passageway.

  Psycho Bitch sat huddled near the wall of one of the houses, next to an old, rusted bicycle, the blood on her face shining garishly in the light, her eyes alive and frightened.

  “Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie . . .”

  Blackburn slowly moved toward her. “Easy now.”

  One of her hands dropped to her side, fingers groping in the dirt, searching for something, then latching onto a small, dusty chunk of brick. Her inner arm was mottled with bruises. Needle tracks.

  “Drop it,” Blackburn said. “Put it down.”

  “Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a . . .”

  “Come on, now, nobody’s gonna hurt you. Put the brick down and step away from the wall.”

  He knew it was probably pointless talking to her. She was deep inside her own head. But he kept trying anyway, wondering where the hell his backup was.

  “Put it down,” he told her again. “Put it down and we’ll find someone to—”

  There was a shout behind him as a car screeched up and—

  —suddenly the fingers hurled the brick, forcing Blackburn to duck. Psycho Bitch sprang from her crouch with an animal-like agility and threw her arms around him, knocking him against the adjacent wall. The Mini-Mag flew out of his hands as—

  —the shouts grew louder and then Toomey and his partner were there, pulling her off him and wrestling her to the ground as Blackburn got to his feet, struggling to catch his breath.

  He stared down at them, annoyed.

  “I can’t believe you morons didn’t cuff the bitch.”