The Edge of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 3)

by Fred Lichtenberg

  Frustrated, I leaned back in the chair. If anyone knew about Nick’s oddities, it would be his mother, only I didn’t want to alarm her, and decided to call JR. He had less information on his cousin than I did, but at least he had a relationship with his aunt.

  JR answered on the first ring. “Perfect timing, Hank; I just got off my shift. Anything new on the case?”

  “Nick took off without telling me. He left a note saying he got a lead on Elizabeth’s whereabouts. Why didn’t he wait for me? Isn’t that what he’s paying me for?”

  “You’re upset.”

  “Damn right!”

  “Look, like I said, Nick and I haven’t seen each other in years. Did you contact my aunt?”

  “I was going to, but I didn’t want to worry her.”

  “You probably made the right decision. From what I remember, she’s doted on him since he was a kid. You might have scared the shit out of her. I’ll call her. She likes talking to me.”

  “Good, how about sweet-talking her into discussing Nick’s frame of mind?” I settled down, then said, “I was on Fort Lauderdale Beach when a red Mustang passed by. Nick mentioned Elizabeth drove one Saturday night. The driver’s side window was down, and it looked like it might have been her, the strawberry-blonde hair, anyway. I took a chance and called out to her, and she stopped. But as I approached, maybe fifty feet away, she took off.”

  “Did you get a plate number?”

  “She was too quick.” I waited a beat. “Quite honestly, JR, I feel like I’m chasing a ghost. I mean, even if it was Elizabeth, it doesn’t look like she wants to be found.”

  “By Nick anyway.”

  “And another thing. We asked the bartender if he remembered a woman sitting with Nick that night. He did. But get this: they didn’t leave together.”

  “What—”

  “Nick claims she went to the ladies’ room and he waited for her outside. Who knows if that’s true? And now your cousin disappeared. I’ll tell you, this whole situation is weird. I feel like I’m wasting my time and Nick’s money.”

  “Fucking relatives. Okay, stay put until I get in touch with my aunt.”

  Waiting for JR, I searched Nick’s apartment for the third time, finding nothing of consequence. I called Nick again and got the same message. I didn’t bother leaving one this time.

  There had been one place I hadn’t ventured to: Nick’s patients’ file cabinet. It felt sacrosanct—not to say illegal, but at this point, I had no other option. Before opening the cabinet, I found a desk calendar, along with a daybook. I thumbed backwards through the calendar, hoping to get a sense of his state of mind, but each page was blank for months, as though Nick had no agenda.

  Had Nick cancelled all his appointments all that time? I grabbed his daybook, which mirrored the calendar. Nothing…until I came across a notation Nick had circled in red: J.B., RIP.

  Nick stopped his sessions since that day. What had he been doing? Holing up in his condo until he finally had the courage to venture out Saturday night? Looking for love? If so, perhaps he got more than he bargained for.

  And now, he was somewhere—supposedly on foot, searching for that love on his own.

  Removing the cabinet key from inside Nick’s desk drawer, I still had reservations about searching Nick’s patients’ files, but then JR called, and I dropped the key on the desk.

  “We have a problem, Hank. After soft interrogation, my aunt broke down. Nick is sick. At least, that’s the way she described his behavior lately. He had a major breakdown soon after a patient killed herself and canceled all appointments before admitting himself into a local hospital. He discharged himself a little over a week ago.”

  I looked back to Nick’s desk. It now made sense.

  “Christ. So, this whole time, I’ve been searching for a non-existent Elizabeth.”

  “Can’t say, but it’s possible.”

  “Well, apparently, he was with someone that night. At least, at the bar.” I began pacing his apartment. “I was probably seeing Elizabeth through Nick’s lens at the beach today. I don’t get it, JR, and I know I’m repeating myself, but why did Nick hire me?”

  “It’s probably part of his illness. He thinks she’s real.”

  I sat down and punched the computer keys. Up popped the screensaver with Nick on a boat reeling in a fish.

  “My aunt wanted to believe Nick. She realizes now it was a mistake. She’ll pay you, of course.”

  “I’m not worried about getting paid. I feel sorry for the guy, and now, I don’t even know where he went. I don’t think it’s safe for him to be out there alone, so I have to look for him.”

  “Hank, I’d come down, but I’m in the middle of a new case, a double homicide.”

  “I understand.” My eyes focused back to the computer screensaver. “There’s a photo of Nick fishing off a boat on his screensaver. I went through his photo file and noticed a bunch with him and a friend. It may be nothing, but Nick never mentioned a male friend. How about I send it over? Maybe your aunt knows the guy. He could be helpful.”

  “Good idea. I’ll text it over to her.”

  “It’s on its way. Talk soon.”

  I removed the cabinet key from the desk and, after a long sigh, opened it. Names appeared in alphabetical order, similar to John Hunter’s patients’ files I’d discovered in a warehouse after he was murdered, back when I was on the force on Long Island. There was nothing to suggest anything was out of place, and I flipped to Janice Brandt’s file, the deceased patient. When I opened it and began reading, I realized something was terribly wrong.

  Eleven

  Nick Ross was on a mission to find his lovely Elizabeth. And now, he knew where she was. At least according to the caller, a woman who refused to identify herself.

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Are we going to play sixty questions? If you want to see her, be quick,” she warned.

  He hustled to the window, pulled back the curtains, and scanned the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. Only Mrs. Burke out walking her poodle.

  Could the caller be trusted? Was she working with the guy who called Sunday morning? Maybe he should get Hank involved.

  Nick decided to call him later with the good news. Right now, he needed to rush out and meet up with Elizabeth.

  Hank had his car, so he opened the Uber app and requested a driver. The guy was fast, arriving in less than ten minutes. After a quick introduction, the driver said, “Nickel’s bar in Pompano Beach, right?”

  “Yes, and hurry.” He slumped back, closed his eyes to quiet his nerves, and mumbled, “Please hurry.”

  The caller had claimed Elizabeth would be inside waiting. Through a dense brain fog, Nick thought, if she had been kidnapped and released, why wouldn’t she call? Very odd. He hoped the caller wasn’t playing him.

  Arriving at the bar, Nick dashed inside. The place was a hole in the wall, with no more than ten stools, and occupied by four retired-looking guys.

  He surveyed his dimly lit surroundings. Where was she?

  He scurried to the bar and snatched at the bartender’s arm. “I’m supposed to meet a woman here. Elizabeth. A strawberry blonde and beautiful.” His eyes swept the room, then back to the bartender. “Was she here?”

  The tall, aging-looking bartender with lots of gray hair tossed Nick a long, hard stare. “You her husband or something?”

  Nick held the guy’s gaze. “No, but she could be in danger.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He scowled. “My name? Why?”

  The bartender folded his arms. “How do I know you aren’t some guy who wants to harm this woman? If she was even here?”

  “What? C’mon, I’m trying to help her.”

  The bartender leaned in. “So why are you afraid of identifying yourself?”

  “Okay, fine. Nick Ross.” His heart pounded.

  “Do you have some ID, Nick Ross? A license works.”

  “This is bullshit! Elizabeth is in t
rouble.”

  The guy shrugged, then moved away.

  “Hold on.” Nick whipped out his driver’s license and held it up. “Satisfied?”

  The bartender eyed the license photo then Nick’s face. “All I can tell you is she ordered a drink, kept looking around like she was worried about something or someone. I’m guessing a guy.” His eyes glanced at a wall clock behind Nick. “She stayed around fifteen minutes, then ran off.” He reached under the bar and passed a napkin across to him. “She left this for you.”

  Nick read the brief note. It was sketchy, and he could tell she was in a rush and nervous by her scratchy writing. I’m afraid, Nick. I need to keep moving. I’ll call you when it’s safe.

  Nick glanced up at the bartender, then to the retired patrons, who seemed too busy chatting to notice his conversation.

  Nick wiped his forehead. “Did you read the note?”

  The bartender glared. “It wasn’t addressed to me, pal, so no. I gather it’s serious, given the look on your face.”

  “Sorry for the inference. Like I said, she could be in danger.”

  The bartender leaned in further. “Then maybe you oughta call the cops.”

  Nick pulled back, searched the bar again. Still no interested parties looking his way. He sat on a stool and hunched over. Should he wait here for her call? Or, like the bartender suggested, go to the cops?

  “You look like you can use a drink.”

  Nick gazed up. “Drink?”

  He nodded. “This is a bar. What’s your preference?”

  Nick checked the bottles behind the bar. “Anything.”

  The bartender shrugged, then came back with a glass of brown liquid with ice and placed it next to Nick’s phone. “You look like a bourbon guy.”

  Nick sat quietly, not indulging in his drink, when his cell rang, which jolted him out of his seat.

  “Hello?” he said, stepping away from the bar.

  “Nick, it’s Elizabeth. Sorry I had to leave. I was afraid he was on to me.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “I’ve been so worried about you. Where did you go Sunday morning?” He continued toward the door.

  “I’ll explain later. Promise.”

  “But the caller, she told me you’d be here. Maybe we oughta call the police.”

  “No, no cops. He threatened to kill me if I did. And you. We’ll figure it out when I see you.”

  Nick shook his head and stepped outside into the waning sun. “Okay, where are you?”

  She whispered, “Where we met. Be quick. And Nick, I miss you.”

  Twelve

  Reading through Janice’s file, I discovered rather disturbing news that, as a psychologist, must have been concerning. At the time, they were working through Janice’s depression and anxiety issues: excessive and persistent worrying for no apparent reason. She had, on occasion, suffered from panic attacks.

  Nick sensed Janice was holding back the true reason for these feelings, and she eventually admitted that her boyfriend/lover was married to her good friend. She began growing more restless about the conflicting situation, increasing her depression.

  She constantly worried her friend would find out, tearing their friendship apart, causing tremendous conflict over the love she felt for him, which he claimed was mutual. Her doubts gradually grew as his excuses for not seeing her more frequently only added to her ever-increasing anxiety, now accompanied with nightmares.

  The sessions got increasingly dark. Nick noted that “Janice began comparing me to her boyfriend and suggesting we looked alike. She started flirting with me, and later she tried seducing me, hoping it would lead to a romance. At that point, I was compelled to stop our sessions and refer her to another psychologist.”

  Her final commitment was admitting to her friend about the ongoing affair with her husband, in order to cleanse herself of her ‘sin’ and to ‘beg for forgiveness.’ “For this, I encouraged caution.”

  I sat down in a swivel chair and took a breather. This was heavy stuff, and not being a psychologist, I wondered what was going through Nick’s mind.

  Continuing, he wrote, “As far as comparing me to her boyfriend, I explained it as transference. It’s a fairly common occurrence in therapy. Janice was transmitting her feelings toward me, but those feelings applied to someone else in her life, in this case, her boyfriend. When she resisted my explanation, I felt ethically obligated to end our therapeutic relationship, advising her I would suggest several psychologists to choose from.”

  I put down the file and stared at the blank computer monitor. It was a no-win situation. I pressed the enter key and typed Janice Brandt, Fort Lauderdale, deceased.

  An obituary appeared, including a photo of the deceased, age thirty-three. It read that after a brief illness, Janice died peacefully in her sleep. At first, I thought I had the wrong person and went back to her file. But there it was; Nick had cut out the same obituary from the local newspaper.

  Brief illness? Maybe the family needed to spare itself from the real culprit: suicide. Nick’s notes made no mention of how she died, only that the family blamed him for her death.

  The blame must have been a tremendous blow to his ego as a psychologist, feeling responsible for her death and ending their therapeutic involvement prematurely. His final note, however, was straightforward: ‘Janice, who felt rejected by her boyfriend, believed I too rejected her, by terminating our relationship and recommending she start seeing another psychologist’.

  The next day she was dead. Nick doubted it was peaceful.

  Thirteen

  Pompano Beach

  Nick arranged another Uber and reached Courtney’s in twenty minutes. He dashed inside and looked around. Again, no Elizabeth. He opened the ladies’ restroom door and called out her name. When no one answered, he called the cell number she’d called him from, but it kept ringing.

  And then his server Ashley showed up from the back and smiled. “Hey.”

  Nick hustled over to her. “Did you see her? The woman I described to you when I was here?”

  Ashley pointed. “As a matter of fact, a woman fitting her description was standing near the door. She looked nervous, kept checking outside. I was going to show her your photo—it was in my bag in the back, but she took off.”

  Nick ran for the door and searched outside. “Elizabeth?”

  His head drooped as he returned to Ashley.

  “Are you okay?”

  He shook his head in defeat then asked, “Did anyone else come looking for her? A guy?” His voice heightened. “She could be in danger.”

  Ashley stepped back, probably sensing Nick’s irrationality. “Just her. Were you supposed to meet her here?”

  Nick mumbled and took off. He tried calling Elizabeth again, but still no answer. And no voicemail feature. Must be a burner.

  Nick struggled to breathe, but he was too hyper. And now, he had no idea what to do. He was about to call Hank when his cell chirped.

  “Elizabeth!”

  “No, asshole, it’s not Elizabeth.”

  “Who is this?” Nick pleaded. “And where is Elizabeth? You’re the caller from Sunday morning who wanted me out of my condo alone, aren’t you?”

  “Pretty smart, Doc. And you did exactly as you were told.” He chortled. “You did me a big favor. It would have been difficult dragging both of you out of the apartment.” He laughed cruelly.

  “I thought it was a prank! Why are you doing this? What do you want from me? From us?” Nick paced back and forth outside of Courtney’s.

  “Listen to me: Elizabeth doesn’t exist. She’s just your imagination. I’m calling to tell you to stop pursuing her ghost. Otherwise…”

  Nick stopped pacing. “Hello?”

  The bastard hung up.

  Nick became consumed by dark, uncontrollable thoughts, which provoked the same downward spiral he had experienced when his patient died. The guilt of her untimely death consumed him, dragging him toward
hopelessness.

  He gazed out into the emptiness of the night, then reached into his pants pocket and removed a medication bottle. He quickly twisted off the cap and tossed a few pills into his mouth.

  “Should take the edge off,” he mumbled, while holding the bottle tightly in his hand.

  He surveyed the street before heading east on Las Olas Boulevard. But after what appeared a lifetime, the meds hadn’t kicked in, and, like a porn movie, images appeared: his best friend lying on top of his wife screwing and laughing.

  “Stop,” he pleaded into the balmy air, rubbing his eyes as though those hurtful images would disappear. But they remained vivid and he opened the bottle for more relief.

  Trudging along, Nick gazed out at the lights ahead. Maybe Elizabeth was there waiting for him. He had to hurry, but his heavy feet held him back. More imagery, this time of Elizabeth crying for help.

  “I’m almost there.”

  More flashbacks. Janice lying in a coffin. “Oh, Janice, I’m so sorry.”

  Nick’s head continued to swirl, but he was determined to keep moving. Only a few more blocks to the light.

  When he arrived, he realized the place looked oddly familiar. He had reached the famous Elbo Room beach bar. His parched mouth and the lively atmosphere drew him in for a quick drink before continuing his search for Elizabeth.

  He gazed at the crowd outside the bar. Their appearance was strange, dressed as though they were at a costume party. And they were laughing. At him? He hastily brushed past them and was hit by wall-to-wall people. Straining to find the bar, he flagged down the bartender and stuttered an order for a whiskey neat.

  He downed it and ordered another.

  Nick’s head was now swimming from all he’d ingested, but he knew he had to continue his search. He pulled back from his stool, almost losing his balance, and weaved his way through the maze of revelers. Why was he here again?