The Dark Hour

by Erin Lanter

  Finally returning to the present moment, the doctor said, “So, Detective. What can I do for you?”

  Al took a moment to decide the best way to approach the topic. He wanted answers, but this guy had already skirted his questions once.

  Gentle, he told himself. Make this guy think you’re his pal. “I was just wondering if you might have remembered something since I was here a couple days ago. You know how sometimes a memory just comes back to you.”

  Dr. Armistead shifted from one leg to the other and rubbed his hairless chin. Pursing his lips, he looked up at the ceiling as if trying to pull something from deep in his subconscious. He shook his head. “No, no, I don’t think so. I’m sorry, Detective. If you’ll recall, I answered all your questions when you were here Wednesday.”

  “Yes, I know, and I appreciate it,” Al said kindly. “I do hate to ask you this, but would you mind coming down to the station to make your statement official? Then you can be done with me.”

  The doctor’s voice rose in irritation. “I’m afraid I can’t. As I already told you, I’m working on a book, and it’s imperative that I write things down when they’re fresh in my mind.”

  “I understand,” Al said, trying to sound as agreeable as possible. “But you can understand my position. I have to cover all my bases so this witness will be satisfied I’m doing everything I can and finally leave me alone.” On a hunch, he leaned closer, lowered his voice, and said in a conspiratorial tone, “You know how women can be.”

  A glimmer of understanding flitted across the psychiatrist’s face. “Yes, I do. More than you know,” he said with a smirk.

  There’s even more to this guy than I thought, Al mused. He doesn’t seem to have a very high opinion of women. Makes me wonder about the wife. What kind of woman would marry this guy?

  “You know, I’ve always thought this was a beautiful neighborhood, but I’ve never been inside one of the houses. Would you mind if I took a quick tour? Just to satisfy my girlfriend, of course. If she knew I was in one of these houses and didn’t come back with all the details, she’d kill me.” He winced inwardly at his choice of words.

  “You don’t have to tell her,” Dr. Armistead suggested. “It’s not any of her business where you go.”

  Whoa. This guy definitely has women issues, Al thought.

  “Well, unfortunately for me, I don’t have a dishonest bone in my body, and she can read me like a book. She’d know if I was keeping anything from her. Please? You know, just to keep the peace,” Al asked again.

  The psychiatrist huffed. “Fine. We need to make it quick, though. I need to get back to work.”

  “Thank you.” Al followed the doctor’s quick gait, making notes of his impression about the homeowners. Everything was immaculate. From what Al could tell, there wasn’t a speck of dust or a single item out of place. Talk about highly controlled, he mused.

  They walked quickly through the upstairs and were about to head back down when a room on the left caught Al’s eye. Stopping mid-step, Al pivoted and walked in. Flipping the light switch, he gasped. “What the – “

  A room full of nude mannequins greeted him.

  “This is Samantha’s room,” Dr. Armistead offered, appearing from nowhere.

  “Oh?” Al said. “Is she a seamstress?”

  A high-pitched laugh escaped the doctor’s throat. “Samantha? A seamstress? Definitely not. She’s in fashion development but also sells new designs to major retailers. She often brings home prototypes and will dress the mannequins and fiddle with the clothing until it hangs just right. Then she reports the needed adjustments, and the company will fix them before she takes the new designs to retailers. Sometimes she carries these things around the house to see how the outfits look in different light. When she’s being particularly absentminded, she forgets to put them back where they belong.”

  He sounded bored when he spoke about his wife’s work but was thorough in explaining.

  As though something suddenly occurred to him, Dr. Armistead snapped his fingers. “You know what? Samantha has been on a business trip and left a couple mannequins around the house. It’s possible your witness saw me carrying one back upstairs.”

  Al nodded. The scenario made sense, but that wouldn’t explain the threatening email Tessa received, or the fact that someone had been breaking into her house.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get some more writing done and then turn in for the night. I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Making a mental note to check out Samantha Armistead, Al said, “I’ll be in touch if I need anything further. Thank you for your time.”

  As Al opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, he was greeted by a warm and gentle breeze, much different than the chill he’d felt just thirty minutes ago. Maybe there wouldn’t be a storm, after all.

  As he descended the steps and walked down the sidewalk to his cruiser, he wished that things had happened exactly how the doctor described, and that Tessa was mistaken about what she saw.

  As he buckled his seatbelt, though, Al’s gut told him that wasn’t the case, and that the good doctor had a dark side.

  48

  The shrill ringing of the telephone woke Camille out of a fitful sleep. She rolled over and looked at the clock. Eight thirty.

  She moaned, then grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand and glanced at the caller ID.

  Beth.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Camille asked groggily, flicking away a stray feather from her down comforter.

  “Yes, it’s time for you to be at work. Are you still asleep?”

  “I was,” Camille snapped, then pulled the covers over her head.

  “You need to get moving, Camille,” Beth urged. “You’re going to get fired if you keep this up.”

  “I don’t care,” Camille whined. “Why do I have to work on Saturday, anyway?”

  “Because all the relationship bankers have to take turns. You know that.” Beth hesitated, then, with concern in her voice, asked, “Have you been drinking again?”

  “What’s it to you, Mom?”

  “Watch it,” her best friend warned. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “I don’t want your help,” Camille growled, then ended the call and tossed her cell back on the nightstand.

  Her phone pinged, alerting her to a text message just as she pulled the covers back over her head.

  She groaned. “What now?”

  Picking the phone back up, she read the message several times, then sprang out of bed. She picked out her most flattering outfit and sky-high heels, applied her makeup to perfection, and spritzed on perfume. After fixing her sleek, honey-colored hair, she grabbed her purse and raced out the door.

  If that text meant what she hoped it did, her life just might get back on track.

  49

  Detective Isaac Dunn scraped the mud from the creek bed off his shoes, leaned back in the chair, and propped his feet up on his desk. Catching the Jane Doe case yesterday was the boost his career needed. With only two years as a detective under his belt, the more seasoned detectives still considered him a rookie. It was a title he was eager to shed.

  He was as good at his job as almost anyone in the department, with the exception of his partner, Al Jefferson. At forty-five years old, Al’s advice was sought by the other detectives any time they hit a snag.

  His partnership with Al was pretty much non-existent these days, and it all started when that James lady came in to report a crime that no one could prove actually happened.

  Usually, he and Al worked side by side, interviewing witnesses and possible suspects, but this time he hadn’t shared any information with Isaac or bounced ideas off him. Despite his obvious exhaustion, Al just kept plugging along, keeping things to himself.

  Isaac refocused his attention on the file in his lap. The preliminary autopsy had come in, and according to the medical examiner, the Jane Doe from the creek bed was between the ages of twen
ty-three and twenty-seven. The external examination showed no sign of a struggle, but there were small puncture marks between her toes. The ME was still waiting on the results from the toxicology screen, but based on the location of the needle marks, drug overdose was a reasonable possibility as cause of death.

  Death by overdose. An accident, right?

  That’s what they said about Marilyn Monroe, too. Though never one to put much stock in conspiracy theories, her case had fascinated Isaac long before he dreamed of being a cop. The idea that law enforcement might be involved in covering up a murder intrigued him. That a cop would cover up the truth, for any reason, blew his mind.

  Even as a child, Isaac saw no gray areas. The whole world was painted in black and white, and anybody who tried to live in between ended up in trouble. There was no wiggle room where right and wrong were concerned, and while his friends at school were pushing boundaries, Isaac was holding steadfast to his personal code of ethics.

  Typical firstborn, his parents had told him. Even they tried to get him to loosen up.

  Isaac walked the straight and narrow, and that made him a good partner with Al Jefferson. Al, another black-and-white thinker, wouldn’t ever compromise a case or sweep it under the rug because doing so was convenient.

  But Isaac was afraid his partner had reached his limit this time.

  What would happen then?

  50

  Still reeling from her meeting with Detective Jefferson and the sketch artist, Tessa got out of her car and walked quickly across the parking lot. She had to keep her mind busy, and work was the only thing that would do that. She’d called Jack and asked if there were any weekend stories that needed rewritten. Jack assured her that there were and said he’d have them placed in her inbox.

  Despite Drew’s protests that she shouldn’t go into the office to get them, she’d finally convinced him to make a pit stop at the office before heading home. With the promise that she wouldn’t be long, he’d finally agreed to let her go into the building by herself, assuring her that he’d be watching to make sure she was okay.

  She glanced over her shoulder and scanned the parking lot as the soles of her running shoes thudded softly against the asphalt. Listening to footsteps was becoming second nature.

  In no mood for small talk and uninterested in getting yelled at by Drew for taking too long, Tessa sailed past the weekend receptionist with barely a nod and plunked her bag on her desk as she rifled through the stack of stories she had to rewrite. For once, she was glad to be confined to a cubicle. She didn’t want to look at or talk to anyone else. Even under the best circumstances, Tessa had little tolerance for small talk. It was forced civility that proved most people were just putting on a facade. On a day like this, when her nerves were frayed and her buttons were just waiting to be pushed, meaningless chatter would be all it took to send her flying over the edge.

  Her heart pounded as footsteps neared her cubicle. She dropped her head, hoping whoever was nearby wouldn’t notice her.

  The footsteps stopped right outside the flimsy wall that surrounded her desk. Reluctantly, Tessa looked up to see Emily, one of the station’s best reporters, standing there with her chin resting on the top of the cubicle. Her hazel eyes danced with excitement.

  “What are you doing here on a Saturday?” she asked.

  “Just picking up some things to rewrite. I won’t be here long,” Tessa said, never making eye contact.

  “What’s up with you today? You’re a little prickly. Get up on the wrong side of the bed or something?”

  Tessa bristled. Prickly? If Emily only knew what she’d been through the past week, she’d understand why she was prickly. “I got up on the wrong side of the wrong bed, that’s what happened,” Tessa grumbled.

  “Are you finally getting tired of sleeping alone? Cause if you are, I know this guy – “

  “Not interested, Em. I stayed at Drew’s last night.”

  “Ooh, I want details!” Emily whispered, looking around to make sure nobody else got the scoop on Tessa’s juicy gossip.

  Tessa rolled her eyes and shoved the papers into her tote bag.

  “Did you two…”

  Tessa stared daggers at her.

  Emily tightened her lips then said, “Of course not. If you had, you wouldn’t be so grumpy.”

  Tessa shook her head tightly. “I’ve gotta go. I’m working from home.” She turned and walked toward the elevator, feeling Emily’s eyes on her back until she rounded the corner.

  Once outside, Tessa gulped the fresh air. She walked toward Drew’s car, angry at Emily for insinuating anything had happened between her and Drew. What business of hers was it, anyway? She and Emily weren’t even close friends. They were nothing more than office acquaintances.

  “What took so long?” Drew asked once she was back in the car.

  “Emily wanted to know why I was acting so prickly.”

  A soft chuckle scaped Drew’s throat and a mischievous smile spread across his face. “Prickly? That’s a new one. I might have to use that.”

  Tessa frowned. “Just drive,” she muttered.

  The two rode in silence until they reached Drew’s house, then Tessa went into the guest room to check her email before she began retyping the stories.

  Her throat closed.

  The words “I’m watching” were in the subject line. The body of the email was completely blank.

  The room began to spin.

  I’m watching.

  If he really is watching, he knows I’m not at my house. He knows I’m here with Drew, and neither of us are safe.

  51

  The tension between Detectives Jefferson and Dunn was noticeable, Isaac was certain of it. There was none of the usual banter that typified their partnership, just clipped comments and tight faces. Their responses to one another consisted of mostly primal snorts and grunts, making it sound like there were two animals in the squad room.

  Isaac had decided that since Al was wrapped up in the Tessa James case, he’d take the initiative and be the lead in the Jane Doe case. He understood why Al was distracted, and he knew it all stemmed from the one screw-up he wouldn’t ever forgive himself for – the Kimberly Hamilton case.

  Any time a young woman went missing, Al was always paranoid he’d miss something that could lead to her being found. This time was no different, even though no one had even been reported missing.

  In the past, Isaac had let it slide, but Al’s behavior on this one worried him. He’d never put so much effort into a case with zero evidence.

  Everything had made sense at first. Al looked into it, found nothing to support the witness’s claims, and moved on. Or at least he tried to. For some reason, he was determined to ride a horse that wouldn’t run. Isaac suspected there was something more personal about this case, something beneath the surface that wouldn’t let Al move on.

  Communicating in snorts and grunts wouldn’t help. They needed to clear the air. Whatever was going on, Isaac was determined to get to the bottom of it so he could focus on clearing the Jane Doe case that was sitting on his desk.

  52

  Al was still in a foul mood. Despite being at his desk for the past three hours, he hadn’t been able to nail down anything solid about Dr. Jacob Armistead.

  His explanation about carrying a mannequin upstairs was a reasonable one, and Al had no problem with the logic of it. It had been raining that night, and Tessa’s visibility would have been impaired. She hadn’t been able to describe the victim, and it was possible that she’d seen him carrying a mannequin rather than a young woman.

  So why did he keep digging?

  Because she’s had two home invasions and a threatening email, all of which happened after she saw him carrying something, or someone, over his shoulder, the voice in his head said.

  Nothing added up.

  A search on the good doctor, revealed that he was in private practice and charged a fortune to manage his patients’ medication. He’d bounced around to differen
t inpatient hospitals before going into private practice and doing part-time work inpatient work.

  Al cocked an eyebrow. Why all the moving around? he wondered.

  He looked up to see Isaac engrossed in the Jane Doe file. Then, shaking his head, Al picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Judge Cooper,” the man on the other end barked.

  The judge was Al’s old drinking buddy, and Al had kept enough secrets over the years to ensure Judge Cooper would be more than willing to do him a favor.

  “Gavin, it’s Al. How have you been?”

  “Same old, same old,” the judge said. “People still breaking the law and eating up taxpayer money. How’s life treating you?” Even when he wasn’t angry, Judge Gavin Cooper was brusque. Between his harsh voice and permanent scowl, he struck fear into everyone in the courtroom. Al didn’t need to be afraid, though. He’d kept the judge’s secrets.

  Like the one about snorting coke with his mistress in Mexico when his wife was in the hospital with food poisoning.

  “Same here. Listen, I wonder if you might do me a favor.”

  The silence on the other end was Judge Cooper’s way of saying, “I’m listening.”

  “Well, I’m working on this case. Some things just don’t add up. I’ve got a woman who says she saw a body wrapped in plastic being carried around this fancy house. Problem is, we don’t have a body. No body, no crime, you know.” Al paused for a moment in case his old pal wanted to interject. When he didn’t, Al went on. “The thing is, this same witness has had her house broken into twice, and she’s received a threatening email since then.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” Judge Cooper asked in his usual gruff tone.

  “What I need from you is a search warrant.” Al held his breath waiting for a reply. He’d known before he made the call that it would be a long shot.