Oliver set the glass of scotch aside. He glanced at the clock as the last of the deputies filed out of his condo. It was closing in on one am. “You can go, Richard. I’ll be fine.”
Holland shook his head. “I think I’ll stay the night on your couch. I’m too tired to drive back to Fort Walton Beach.”
“All right. But take the guest room. The bed in there is a little more comfortable than the couch.”
Richard rubbed at the back of his neck. “No more drinking tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m going to try to sleep. I’ll be heading to medical examiner’s office in the morning.”
“I’ll go with you.” Richard turned and disappeared inside the guest room.
Oliver entered his own bedroom, his body now as numb as his mind.
The Silencer had been in his home.
Stopping in front of his dresser, Oliver found himself reliving the Silencer’s words over and over. I find it fascinating that April’s clothing is still in your closet. What does it feel like to love someone on that level, Oliver?
He wandered over to the closet in question and ran his fingertips along April’s dresses.
He pulled one free, bringing it to his nose without conscious thought.
April’s sweet scent no longer lingered in the fabric.
Oliver tossed the dress behind him and tugged down another one, only to find it devoid of her as well.
On it went, with Oliver yanking down clothes in a desperate attempt to smell April’s scent just once more.
But her essence had disappeared years ago, just as she had.
Unbearable pain ripped through him. The wound in his heart felt as fresh as it did the day he lowered his wife’s cold body into the ground.
Oliver’s legs gave out. He dropped to his knees in a mindless heap of heartbreak—a heartbreak he feared he would never heal from…
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Jesus, Quick, are you all right?”
The sound of Holland’s overly loud voice sent pain shooting through Oliver’s skull.
He rolled to his back and peeled his cotton-filled eyes open. There, hovering above him, was Holland’s worry-filled face. “Richard?”
“Did you sleep down here all night?”
Oliver glanced to his left, realizing his bed sat a good ten feet away.
And then agony throbbed to life in his shoulder.
He slowly sat up, taking in the sight before him.
Dozens of dresses were strewn about the room, along with an array of slacks and colorful blouses. April’s blouses.
Memory began to set in, and with it, the helpless rage he’d experienced the night before.
“Here, let’s get you up.” Holland gripped him beneath his arms and helped him to his feet. “Go shower. I’ll put some coffee on.”
“Can you grab me a pain pill from the kitchen? From my shoulder to my elbow feels like it’s been hit by a Mack truck.”
Holland gave him the once-over. “Serves you right. You bring this shit on yourself. Always have.”
Oliver ignored his jab. He moved as carefully as he could to the bathroom and started the shower.
After stepping out of his shoes, he unzipped his pants and dragged them down his legs.
Richard appeared at the door, holding out a glass of water and a large blue pill, which Oliver promptly accepted. “Thanks.”
With a nod, Richard turned and pulled the door shut behind him.
Oliver finished undressing and took his pain pill before stepping under the hot spray of the shower. I find it fascinating that April’s clothing is still in your closet. What does it feel like to love someone on that level, Oliver?
It had felt amazing, Oliver silently admitted, conjuring up the sound of April’s laughter. But April was gone…as was their unborn child.
Breathing through the always present pain of April’s death, Oliver pushed it as far from his mind as her memory would allow.
He finished his shower in robotic fashion, brushed his teeth, and trailed back to his room to get dressed.
The pain in his arm had started to ease up with the help of the blue pill he’d swallowed.
Wearing a navy-blue suit, Oliver stepped into one of his favorite pair of Italian loafers and strode off into the kitchen.
“You look much better,” Richard remarked, pouring Oliver a cup of coffee. He added in some cream before sliding the cup forward.
Oliver bent to retrieve a couple of garbage bags from beneath the sink. “Thanks. I have something to do first. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into his bedroom once again.
It took an enormous amount of strength to bag up April’s things, but that’s exactly what Oliver did.
He couldn’t spend the rest of his life living with her ghost. In fact, he hadn’t been living at all… He’d been merely existing since her death.
Once the clothes were bagged up, he took the picture from his dresser and placed it in the top of his closet.
Oliver turned around to find Richard standing in the doorway, the older man’s eyes reflecting sympathy. “That couldn’t have been easy for you.”
“It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do,” Oliver admitted, stepping around Holland and taking the bags to the front door.
He set them down and took a seat at the bar to take a sip of his coffee.
Richard moved to the kitchen to face Oliver. “How’s the arm feeling?”
“Better now.”
“I’ll drive you to the medical examiner’s office.”
Oliver shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Plus, I’m going to head back to Alabama and check in on Missy Davis.”
“I can’t let you drive on narcotics, Quick.”
Exhaling a sigh, Oliver turned off the coffee pot, holstered his gun, and strode toward the door. “Fine, but did you shower this morning?”
“I showered,” Richard growled, following Oliver outside. He locked and closed the door behind him.
* * * *
Half an hour later, Oliver stood next to Holland in the Fort Walton Beach Medical Examiner’s Office.
It had been six years since the last time Oliver had been in that room.
A door suddenly opened, and Doctor Rosenstein, the ME, appeared. “Right this way, gentlemen.”
Oliver followed Holland inside the doctor’s tidy office.
Rosenstein moved around behind his desk and waved a hand toward them. “Please, have a seat.”
Once seated, the doctor casually leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”
Oliver spoke first. “You performed the autopsy on my wife a little over six years ago. Her name was April Quick.”
The doctor studied Oliver’s face for several heartbeats. “The name sounds vaguely familiar. But you have to understand. I do hundreds of autopsies a year.”
“She was a victim of the Silencer,” Oliver bit out. “The serial killer who removed his victims’ larynx before—”
Rosenstein held up a hand in an effort to cut off the rest of Oliver’s words. “I remember the Silencer. What about him?”
It angered Oliver that the doctor couldn’t recall April, but he had no problem remembering her killer. “He’s resurfaced.”
The doctor sat forward, his attention now glued to an angry Oliver. “What is it that you need from me?”
“My wife had been pregnant at the time of her death. Not far enough along to have seen a doctor yet. But the killer knew of her pregnancy. Now, no one knew but me, the detectives who worked the case, and…you.”
Rosenstein’s jaw tightened. “Are you accusing me—”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Oliver interrupted. “What I need from you is a list of everyone who has had access to April’s file since her death.”
The doctor looked at Oliver as if he’d grown a second head. “That’s everyone who works here or has worked here in the past six years.”
Oliver held the man’s gaze. “Who do I need to speak with to g
et my hands on that list?”
“Our office manager, of course. Her name is Danica Weber. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a body to get back to.”
Oliver got to his feet and strode from the room without another word to Rosenstein.
“How about letting me question the office manager?” Richard muttered once they were out of earshot. “I have a little more tact than you do when it comes to people.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Richard. Remember the Benton case?”
Holland pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was one time. And in my defense, I hadn’t slept in the days leading up to that incident.”
The two of them stopped outside a door that read Office Manager.
Richard tapped his knuckles on the lightly stained wood.
“It’s open,” a feminine voice called out.
Oliver twisted the knob and stepped back, letting Richard have the lead.
“Miss Weber?” Holland extended his hand to the attractive brunette sitting behind a desk with her long, shapely legs crossed. “My name is Richard Holland.”
The brunette leisurely stood, accepted Holland’s outstretched hand, and then blasted Oliver with a pair of light green eyes.
Oliver extended his hand as well. “Oliver Quick. We’re with the FBI.”
Danica Weber held on to Oliver’s palm a bit longer than he thought was necessary before sending him a pleasant smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Quick. Please, have a seat.”
“I think I’ll stand,” Oliver responded, unable to sit still another minute.
Danica’s smile faltered. She immediately turned her attention to a now seated Richard. “What can I do for you, Mr. Holland?”
Oliver leaned against the wall, listening as Richard explained exactly what they needed to Danica Weber, ending with, “It’s extremely urgent and, of course, confidential.”
“Of course,” she responded, pulling up her computer screen. “You need every person that’s worked in this building for the past six years?”
Oliver answered for Richard. “Everyone. Including the janitors.”
“Not everyone is in the computer, Mr. Quick. It’s going to take me some time to gather all the names you need.”
Oliver plucked up a pen and jotted down his email address. “Send me that list as soon as you have it.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
After Holland dropped him off at home later that morning, Oliver laid down on the sofa to await Danica’s email.
He’d fallen asleep, probably due to the medication he had taken before going to the medical examiner’s office.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, he noticed it was a little after two in the afternoon.
He opened his laptop to check for Danica’s email, only to find it hadn’t arrived yet.
With a sigh, Oliver pushed to his feet, holstered his weapon, and picked up the heavy bags on the way to the door. He would check on Missy Davis.
The drive to Alabama was, of course, wrought with slow-ass drivers and idiots who drove thirty-five miles per hour in the passing lane.
What should have taken him an hour and a half at best ended up taking two.
Oliver arrived at the hospital around four-fifteen that afternoon. He grabbed the bags of clothes from his rental car and strode through the automatic doors of the lobby.
His shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Of course, he had no choice but to wait until he arrived home to take his pain medication. One, because he really shouldn’t drive while medicated, and two, he’d left the damn things at home on the bar.
He sealed his lips against the germs he knew would be lurking in the lobby, trailed over to a set of elevators, and lifted his finger to press the button.
The doors slid open before he made contact with the small silver orb.
A young dark-haired man stepped from the elevator with red-rimmed eyes. No excuse me or even a quick glance in Oliver’s direction before he strode off down the hall and disappeared around the corner.
Oliver held the elevator door open for several more heartbeats, his gaze fixated on that corner.
He knew that look. Even with the hardest of hearts, pain was something one found difficult to hide.
With a heavy sigh, Oliver boarded the elevator.
He arrived at the third floor a few seconds later, nearly colliding with a nurse upon his exit.
“Excuse me,” Oliver called out to her retreating back. “Can you tell me what room Missy Davis is in?”
She stopped, her gaze dropping to the two bags of clothes he held. “Are you a family member?”
“No, ma’am. I’m an FBI agent. I just need to see her for a few minutes. It won’t take up too much of her time.”
The nurse nodded toward a hallway to her right. “She’s in room 302.”
“Thank you.” Oliver put the nurse from his mind and trailed off in the direction she’d indicated.
He stopped in front of room 302 and lightly tapped on the partially open door. “Mrs. Davis?”
Missy Davis lay on her side, facing the door, her eyes black and swollen.
She attempted to move, as if afraid.
“Hi, Missy. Do you remember me?” He moved deeper into the room, setting the bags of clothes out of the way. “The FBI agent from yesterday.”
A soft sound that tore at Oliver’s heart escaped her.
He stopped next to the bed and pulled up a chair. It would help put her at ease with him not towering over her. “Is there anything I can get you?”
She didn’t respond.
“I brought you some stuff. You can look through it later when you’re feeling up to it.” April and Missy were about the same size. Once Missy’s baby was born, Oliver hoped she could get some use out of the clothes.
He noticed a fetal monitor attached to Missy’s belly. Which meant that her baby had survived. “Do you know what you’re having yet? A boy or a girl?”
“A boy,” she whispered, so softly that Oliver barely heard her.
It took him a moment to respond around the lump in his throat. “A boy. That’s great, Missy.”
He opened his mouth to ask her about her family, but the look on her face held him back. He didn’t need to read her thoughts to know she relived those horrific moments every waking minute.
“He’s dead, Missy. You’ll never have to see him again.”
A single tear tracked down her cheek. “I see him every time I close my eyes.”
Nausea rolled through Oliver’s gut. He prayed that the birth of her baby would help heal the wounds left by the Dockside Killer. The mental ones were always worse than the physical.
Oliver leaned in close, resting his elbows on his knees. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand what made him say what he said next. “I lost my wife to a serial killer.”
Missy wiped at her nose, the cracks of her eyelids growing wider. “W-was it him? The same one who took me?”
Oliver shook his head.
With a trembling hand, she slowly reached between the railing of her bed and touched Oliver’s fingers. “I’m sorry about your wife.”
He opened his mouth to say thank you, but the words wouldn’t seem to come.
The two of them remained there for long moments, holding hands, neither of them speaking. Until the sound of Missy’s deep, even breathing filled the air.
“That’s the first time she’s slept since she was brought in yesterday,” a nurse informed Oliver in a soft voice.
Oliver looked down at the small fingers that clung to his own and then met the nurse’s gaze. “Has she had any visitors, such as a husband, family members?”
The nurse nodded. “Her husband was here right before you arrived. But he left rather quickly. I don’t think she wanted to see him.”
Oliver thought about the man he’d seen exiting the elevator. “Young guy, dark hair, wearing jeans?”
“Yes, that sounds about right. Poor guy.”
“Often times when women are raped, they feel too much shame to face those they care about the most.”
The nurse’s eyes showed their sadness. “It shouldn’t have to be that way. But you’re right. I’ve seen it in my line of work on more than one occasion.”
“So have I, unfortunately…so have I.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After staying an hour, holding Missy Davis’s hand while she slept, Oliver took the elevator back to the bottom floor.
He noticed the young, dark-haired gentleman he’d passed on his way up, sitting on a bench near the gift shop. He held a teddy bear in his hands with a small balloon attached to it that read, Get well soon.
Oliver carefully approached. “Are you Missy Davis’s husband?”
The man jumped to his feet, concern evident on his face. “Has something happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s sleeping,” Oliver informed him, hoping to ease his anxiety.
With a nod, the guy returned to the bench. “That’s good. She hasn’t slept since she’s been here.”
“Do you mind?” Oliver waved a hand toward the bench and waited for the guy to make room.
Taking a seat, he extended his hand. “My name’s Oliver Quick. I’m with the FBI.”
Switching the teddy bear to his other side, the guy accepted Oliver’s palm. “Kenny Davis. You’re the one who found Missy.” It wasn’t a question.
Oliver released him but remained quiet. It was obvious that Kenny needed to talk.
“I’m a truck driver,” Kenny began, his fingers busy kneading that teddy bear. “I’d been gone for several days before Missy was…taken. She wasn’t answering my calls, and her family hadn’t heard from her either.”
That explained why no one reported her missing, Oliver thought.
Kenny looked up and met Oliver’s gaze. “We’d had an argument right before I left. I assumed she was avoiding my calls out of anger. If I had known—”
“Don’t do this to yourself, Kenny. There was no way you could have known.”
“Then why do I feel so much guilt? It’s eating me up inside.”
Oliver looked away; his gaze fixated on the wall in front of him. “Probably because we’re supposed to be protectors, and when something happens, no matter if it was in our control to prevent it or not, we feel to blame. But it’s not your fault anymore than it is hers.”
Oliver Quick Page 11
