“Actually what? Just spit it out.”
“I got another book for you. But now I’m not sure whether it’ll help or make things worse.”
“Where is it? Did you bring it?” I’d finished my wall, climbed down and was washing my hands in a sudsy bucket. We were nothing if not neat about this project.
She nodded and used her paintbrush to point to the coatrack near the front door, where her drawstring burlap excuse for a purse was hanging. “Help yourself. Just be prepared. It’s a little...intense.”
I headed over to her bag and dipped inside for the book. There was an image on the cover of a skinless body, with all the muscles and veins showing—you know, like in a high school health class textbook. Cellular Consciousness by Dr. Raymond Vosberg. “Hey! This is the shrink who runs that support group!”
“I know. That’s why I bought it. But like I said, it’s a little intense.”
“Intense how?” I flipped open the back cover, and sure enough, the author photo was of Dr. V.
She shrugged. “He claims transplant recipients get a lot of extra stuff from their donors. Cravings for the dead guy’s favorite foods. Feelings of déjà vu when they go to places their donor used to go. They start using certain turns of phrase, and sometimes even have memories that aren’t their own and turn out to belong to their organ’s previous owner. His theory is that part of the soul comes with the organs.”
“You think it’s for real?” I asked her.
“You tell me. You just felt a guy shoot himself in the head. How else do you explain that?”
“I don’t. It could have been just a fluke.”
She sighed. “Maybe you ought to read that book. You know, just in case.”
I could feel my forehead pucker in thought. “I will,” I said. And I definitely would, probably tonight in one red-hot session. Because too many weird things had been happening to me since I’d gotten my eyesight back. That dream of murdering some poor SOB with a hammer. That flash of seeing some stranger in a Legalize Love T-shirt that resulted in my nailing Mason Brown’s ex-mailbox. And that bullet through the head. That more than anything. There was no freaking way I could have known that. None.
“Hey.”
I was still standing there staring at Dr. V’s head shot. He really did look like Custer, I thought.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, the edges still need—”
“No, not that,” she said, then nodded at the TV. “That. Something’s up.”
I followed her gaze to see Binghamton’s slick, AARP cover girl of a mayor standing on the steps in front of city hall in a designer suit, not a pale coifed hair out of place, with two men slightly behind and flanking her. I knew one was Police Chief Subrinsky, because I’d seen his face in the newspaper every now and then. I knew the other guy because I’d run over his mailbox and he’d run over my body.
“That’s Mason Brown,” I told her. “The one on the left.”
“You’re right, he is hot.”
I snagged the remote and cranked up the volume.
“The recent piece in the Press and Sun Bulletin was, at best, speculation. At worst, it was dangerous and irresponsible reporting,” Mayor Katherine Spencer said in tones as smooth as butter. “While it’s true that a number of men have been reported missing, there is absolutely no reason to jump to the conclusion that there is a serial killer on the loose in Binghamton.”
Cameras flashed, and reporters shouted questions, but the mayor held up her perfectly manicured hands. “I’m going to let Chief Subrinsky take it from here, but rest assured, we have this well in hand, and there is no reason for anyone to be afraid. Binghamton remains one of the safest cities in these United States. On that you have my word.”
“Word of a politician,” Amy said. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Shhhh!”
I felt the look she shot me, but I didn’t return it. My eyes were glued to the screen as the police chief stepped up to the mike.
“I don’t have a lot to add to what the mayor has said. While we do have several missing persons cases, we haven’t found any bodies. That’s key. Not one single body has been discovered. It’s a huge leap of the imagination to jump to a serial killer based on what we know to date. Even so, we take the safety of our citizens very seriously. That’s why I’ve created a task force to focus specifically on these cases. That task force will be headed up by Detective Mason Brown.” He held out an arm, and Mason, apparently with some reluctance, stepped forward and let the chief clap his shoulder. “Detective Brown is highly decorated, with a stack of commendations higher than my head. I have every confidence that he will have answers for us soon.”
Cameras flashed and, again, more questions were shouted.
“Is it true all the missing men match the same description?”
“Why a task force, unless the cases are connected?”
“How many men have gone missing, Detective Brown?”
“Is the FBI being called in?”
The chief smiled at Mason, patted him hard and stepped back from the mike, turning it over to him. I read his body language, that smile, plain as day. It said, I am now officially passing the buck, Detective. Knock yourself out.
Mason looked at the microphone as if it might bite him, cleared his throat, lifted his chin. I was furious with him and sorry for him at the same time. Furious because I was already putting the pieces together in my head and guessing that my brother was one of these missing persons cases the press were attributing to a serial killer. Sorry because the responsibility for Tommy and all the other missing men had just been dropped on those wide shoulders of his, and I’d sensed they were already in danger of buckling under the weight of his brother’s recent suicide.
But he stood straight and tall, and spoke with so much confidence that even I believed him. “The first mission of the task force is to determine whether these cases are connected.”
“How many cases?” someone yelled.
“Fourteen.”
The chief looked surprised that he’d admitted it. The reporters all started talking at once again.
“Why wait ’til now to form the task force?”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“How far back do these missing persons reports go?”
Mason looked left at the mayor, then right at the chief. They both looked impassive. Clearly there was no help coming from either quarter. Then he faced the crowd again, leaned close to the mike and said, “That’s all I can say at this time. This is an open investigation. You’re just going to have to be patient. Thanks.” Then he turned and walked up the steps and through the glass doors of city hall.
I watched him go and knew by the way he carried himself that he was pissed at being thrown to the wolves like that by his superiors. Well, I was pissed at being kept in the dark. And if he thought the crowd of voracious reporters was bad, he’d better hang on to his knickers when I got my hands on him.
“I gotta go,” I said to Amy.
She looked at the TV, then at me. “You think Tommy was one of these missing men they’re talking about?”
“That’s what I’m about to find out.” I looked at the walls, at the paint cans.
“Don’t worry,” she promised. “I’ll have this finished in an hour, and I’ll clean up the mess when I’m done. You go.”
“Don’t hang anything on the walls. I want trim or stencils or a great big mural...or something.”
“’Kay.”
I started for the front door.
“Rache?”
“What?”
“Don’t you want to change first? You have paint on your...everything.”
I looked down at myself, and for a moment the dark red spatters on my oldest jeans, on my hands and forearms, seemed like blood. My heart started pounding; my head started swimming. I swayed, then grabbed the ladder, almost knocking it over.
Amy lunged, latched onto me, eased me down onto my sheet-covered sofa. “What the hell? Are you okay?”
I blinked until my head cleared a little, then nodded, but I didn’t meet her eyes. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
Only I wasn’t. I wasn’t okay, and I think it was right then that I realized way down deep in my gut that my brother wasn’t okay, either. My brother was dead.
And that sonofabitch Mason Brown knew it. He knew it, and he hadn’t told me.
8
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
Mason looked up from his desk the minute he heard the by-now-familiar voice. Rachel de Luca was stomping toward him wearing purple skinny jeans tucked into tall black boots and a long green cowl-necked sweater that hung off one shoulder to reveal a hot pink tank underneath. Her color choices made his teeth ache.
And everyone in the office was turning to gape at him.
He got up. He’d been expecting this visit, rehearsing his explanation. “There was nothing to tell. This is pure specula—”
“That is pure bullshit.” She was at his desk now, hands flat on it as she leaned into his face. Well, flat on top of several piles of paper. She was so close that he could look directly down the sweater at her cleavage, and he felt his brows go up. Nice cleavage. Who knew?
“Up here, Detective. Crap. How many of you Y-Chromers got away with that before I got my eyes back?”
“All of us.” He stood up and dragged his gaze with him. “Can we talk about this in private?” he asked as his eyes finally met hers.
But hers were looking past him, and widening, and he turned to look, as well. Rosie had just come out of the conference room that Mason was about to take over for his task force. As the door swung slowly closed behind him, the corkboard on the far wall, where the photos of all the missing men were hanging, was in plain sight. That was what she’d seen.
Rachel had rounded his desk, brushing past Rosie like he wasn’t even there, and barged into the room before he could catch up to her. She stopped right in the center and just stood there, staring at the photos.
Mason came in behind her, closing the door to give them some privacy. Her brash manners and loud mouth made him want to hate her guts, but he couldn’t. Not just then. Not when she sniffled unashamedly and took two steps closer, lifting her hand, pressing her fingers to the 8 x 10 glossy of her brother.
He knew how it felt to lose a brother, after all.
“I’m sorry. I’d have had my ass handed to me if I’d been the one to let this information out.”
She didn’t turn, didn’t move her hand. “Then it’s true? There is a serial killer?”
“There’s no proof of that.” God, he felt like an ass for lying to her. “We haven’t found blood or bodies. Nothing. It’s like they just...vanished.”
“He takes them somewhere before he kills them.”
“Excuse me?”
She finally turned to face him, a tear still damp on her cheek. His gut churned with guilt. “If you don’t find anything, then he must take them somewhere else, right? It’s common sense.”
She was covering. His cop sense was tingling. This woman knew something. Just like she’d known how his brother had died.
“Where do you think he takes them?”
“Isn’t that sort of your job to figure out?”
“Why don’t we sit down and have a long talk?” he suggested. “You’re right. I should have told you that your brother was one of thirteen missing men. I’m sorry about that.”
“Fourteen.” She dropped the word as if it was nothing.
“As of this morning, yes. Fourteen. We don’t have a photo of the most recent victim yet.” She was still keeping something from him. Something important. He was sure of it. “Listen, Rachel, why we don’t we get some coffee somewhere? Maybe lunch? Talk about this at length?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I want to know about the new guy first.” She slid into a chair in front of his new desk, and her steady gaze went right back to the photos.
“Why would you want to know about him?”
She shrugged. “Maybe there’s a connection between him and my brother. Something you’ve missed that would be obvious to me.”
And if that wasn’t a good enough reason, Mason thought, she would make up another. Because he was sure she wasn’t telling him everything. Yet.
“I’m not supposed to discuss—”
“Come on, Mason. You owe me that much. I can guess a little. They’re all on the scrawny pale side. They all have longish hair in varying shades of brown.” She leaned forward, squinting a little. “And brown eyes, too?”
“Yeah.”
“All around the same age?”
“Range is from twenty-three to twenty-seven, except for your brother.”
“Tommy looked young for his age. But they’re not all addicts, are they?”
“No.” He was being interviewed here, and he needed it to be the other way around.
“Tell me about the new guy,” she said again.
He was about to say no, but she shifted her focus and her eyes locked onto his. And he knew, he knew damn well, they were not his brother’s eyes, but it felt for just an instant like they were.
He looked away first. “Let’s get some lunch, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
* * *
Lunch was at a Mexican cucina near the P.D., where I sat in front of a chicken quesadilla that covered the entire plate, and handed the little containers of sour cream and salsa back to the waitress. “I don’t need these.”
“Oh, okay. You want something else?” Her smile was a real one. Went all the way to her eyes.
“No, I’m good.”
She nodded and bounced away. I took a sip from my mug and nodded. “The coffee’s good, and the staff are happy. You get better food in places with a happy waitstaff.”
“And how do you know they’re happy?”
I was still angry. I was grieving for my brother. I was scared shitless about my visions, and pretty sure I knew who the fourteenth victim had been. Not his name or anything, but what he looked like. I didn’t want to be right, but I felt in my gut that I was.
And yet I understood on some level why Mason couldn’t tell me. It helped that I could feel the guilt weighing down on him for it. So I could cut him a little slack. Not much, but a little.
“Close your eyes for a second, Mason,” I said.
He frowned, but he did it.
“Now listen.”
I knew what he was hearing. I’d been hearing it since we came in. One waitress was humming, sometimes singing a little, as she moved back and forth between tables. A waiter and another waitress were chatting by the cash register, friendly tones, easy conversation. Somewhere in the kitchen, someone laughed.
“That’s the sound of happy people.”
He opened his eyes. “You really do have keen perception.”
“You think?”
He nodded. “Yeah. You left your binder at my apartment. I went through it. It shows up there, too.”
“I need it back.”
“It’s in the office. Remind me when we get back.” He dug into his burrito.
I reached for the hot sauce and started shaking it all over my quesadilla. “I spent more than twenty years blind. Had to depend on my other senses, so I guess they got stronger.”
I looked up. He was watching me as I continued to shake the hot sauce. I shrugged and set the bottle down. “It’s a recently acquired taste. Weird, I admit, but...” I cut a big bite and slid it into my mouth. “Damn, that’s good.”
He took a gulp from his water glass, then put it down with care, setting it precisely in the ring it had already formed on the Formica. He was nervous. Why?
I could guess. “Your brother loved hot sauce, too, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
I sighed, nodding. “I thought so.”
“What does that mean?”
He wasn’t ready to hear it, so I shrugged and changed the subject. “I have a sort of inner camera. When I was blind
I would imagine what people looked like by their voices, their mannerisms, and...I don’t know, I guess you’d say their energy. It’s not ESP woo-woo bullshit. It’s just that some people give off...I don’t know. A vibe, I guess.”
“So you really believe the things you write about?”
I clamped my jaw to prevent an honest answer from leaking out and reached for my own water glass.
When I set it down I changed the subject again. “What about the latest missing guy? You gonna tell me?”
“I don’t see the harm. He’s twenty-seven, a perpetual student and apparent science geek. No known enemies.”
“Known enemies aren’t the ones to worry about, though, are they?”
He smiled a little. “I guess not.”
I kept eating, because my quesadilla was to die for. Why had I never eaten here before? The place was fantastic, everything vivid and bright. Green, yellow and red, each trying to be louder than the other, like competing mariachis. And there was music, a little too soft but creating the perfect ambiance, trumpets and castanets. I took another long drink of water. “So, where was he last seen?”
“Getting into a car in front of a coffee shop on Front Street.”
I stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth and looked over it at him. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
Blinking fast, I shook my head, ate my food. But I was scared. I did not want to believe I’d seen the murder victim just before he’d been killed. It wasn’t possibly, was it?
Why not? Tall, scrawny, brown hair, brown eyes, coffee shop? Test it. Go on, ask what he was wearing. No, tell him what he was wearing, because if I’m right, he’s going to have to believe me sooner or later.
I wanted to prove the voice in my head wrong so badly that I went for broke, even though I would probably come off looking like an idiot when he refuted my vision. “I don’t suppose he was wearing skinny jeans and a bright blue Legalize Love T-shirt?”
He didn’t answer me. I was feeling a little queasy. Too much hot sauce, that was all. I eyed the last of my quesadilla for a minute, debating whether to stuff it down or ask for a take-out box, and feeling the silence lengthening and growing tense. I looked up.
Sleep With The Lights On Page 12
