by T. F. Walsh
She moaned, and he moved closer to her.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Hart.”
He reached out his right hand, intending only to offer her comfort, but her hand coiled around his, as it often had, and she seemed to relax. The tension marring her face disappeared. He sat in the chair and started talking as he did most Saturdays.
“Dr. Marion tells me you’re upset because you can’t remember, but you have the rest of your life to make new memories, and believe me, I don’t think your life before was the greatest. I know you’ll be upset about some of the things we have to tell you, but Mandy will be thrilled to have you back. She’s a feisty little thing and cute as a button. The next few days are going to be hard on you, but I’ll be here. I won’t leave San Francisco as long as you need me.”
How long would she need him? And if she did regain her memory, would his presence become a painful symbol of that night, of what she’d lost? Could he live with her reaction if she discovered his role in those events?
“You need to start eating and get some exercise, so we can get you out of here. I’m going to start bringing you every fancy bonbon and candy I can find. I’m not sure when they’ll bring Mandy to see you, but you risked so much to save her, I know a part of you will remember her. She needs her mommy more than ever. Sleep now. I’ll be back in the morning.”
He removed his hand from hers, straightened her blankets, and, unable to stop himself, leaned down and tenderly placed a kiss on her forehead—a liberty he’d never taken before. Irene’s Mona Lisa smile flashed before his eyes. He frowned. It was just a gesture of comfort, the kind of thing a person did when they tucked a child into bed. It didn’t mean anything. As he pulled away, he realized her eyes were open.
Damn. Stunned, he stared into sleepy hazel eyes. There was no pleading in them this time. What the hell was he thinking? He had enough to worry about without this. Maybe she wouldn’t remember.
She smiled at him. Before he could say anything, her eyes closed again. He straightened from the bed and left the room. As he closed the door, Irene came out of her office and hurried toward him.
“I called the Investigator first,” she said. “The editor is an old friend. I was right. The story is set to run on the front page. He can’t kill it. The online edition’s already out. The news crew will be here in twenty minutes. Did you reach the family?”
“Yes. Private security should arrive at any time.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than the elevator doors opened. A man, at least three inches taller than Jason and obviously ex-military from the way he carried himself, walked briskly down the hall toward them. His black jacket stretched across shoulders that would have made a linebacker proud, and he had to weigh in at 250 pounds of solid muscle. The bulge in his jacket indicated he was armed with a weapon that matched his size. He was bald, but the look suited him. He stopped about three feet in front of them.
“Troy McDerban, Sentinel Security. I assume you’re Agent Spark?” He handed his credentials to Jason. “My firm’s been hired by Thomas Lincoln to provide security for Nicole Hart.”
“Call me Jason.”
He took the man’s ID and examined it before returning it. Jason had heard of McDerban and Sentinel Security. It was a private security firm, made up of ex-military personnel who provided bodyguards for visiting dignitaries as well as for California’s rich and famous. He stuck out his hand, and the man gripped it in a handshake filled with power and self-confidence.
“This is Dr. Irene Marion, Mrs. Hart’s primary physician, and the angel behind the desk is Cassie Palmer. I’m sure she’ll show you around if you ask. Where do you plan to set up?”
“Inside the room at night, outside it during the day when she has authorized company or the staff needs to attend to her. No one will get past us. You can count on that. We work in teams. My partner is parking the car.”
The elevator doors opened, and a statuesque blonde who could have been a swimsuit model stepped out.
“Here comes Angie now. Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s armed, but she doesn’t need a gun to defend herself. The woman’s a deadly weapon. Another team will take over in the morning.”
Jason nodded. “Let me bring you up to speed.”
• • •
Nikki couldn’t identify what had awakened her. The room was dark. It had been light each time she’d opened her eyes before. She’d had one of those awful dreams again. If only she could recollect them, she might be able to make sense of things, but all she had were jumbled images and partial faces—faces too distorted to be human. The only thing she recalled clearly was the angel who sat with her, pulling her out of the dreams, and comforting her.
Had he kissed her on the forehead or had that been her imagination? She’d seen him again this time, but the room had been dark, not as dark as it was now, but too dark to clearly make out his features. She had the impression of long, sandy brown hair that curled at the nape, broad shoulders, and muscular arms that spoke of strength. The only thing she knew for certain was that that her hand was dwarfed by his large one. When he came to her, she felt safe.
The angel always spoke to her in the emptiness when the agony was at its worst. She didn’t remember what he said, but his voice scared away the monsters. More than once, she’d forced herself to reach out to that voice and hold onto it when demons told her it was time to give up. She wouldn’t give up. She had something important to do; she just didn’t know what it was.
It was funny how the product of her imagination was clearer to her than anything else. She couldn’t even describe herself. How tall was she? She had small hands, or at least they seemed small when placed in his. She thought of her mother. The woman was beautiful in the classic, ageless way Scandinavian women were. Lincoln didn’t sound Scandinavian, but the woman’s bone structure and coloring spoke of a Swedish or Norse ancestry. She’d been wearing a designer suit and carried herself with the poise that bespoke money.
Based on the face in the mirror, Nikki didn’t resemble her mother. Had she before? Was that why Nadia had stared at her so intensely earlier?
What had she called this person? Mother? Mom? Mommy? Momma? Nadia? Mommy seemed to ring a bell, but it was more a child’s designation than an adult’s, wasn’t it? Mother seemed more appropriate for such a dignified woman.
Nikki stared at the blackness, allowing her eyes to grow accustomed to it. There was a faint aura of light entering the room around the door where it wasn’t snug. She turned her head to the left where she could see the faint glow of streetlights. Once her eyes adjusted, she realized the room wasn’t as dark as she’d thought it was. She didn’t like the dark.
The notion startled her. Was she afraid of the dark? Not really, but she was uncomfortable in it in strange surroundings. She grasped at the idea as if it were a lifeline.
She was thirsty. Someone had moved the bedside table from the left side to the right side of her bed. There had been water there earlier. She tried to sit up and reach for it, but she was too weak and collapsed back into the pillow.
She turned to the left, and gasped. She wasn’t alone. A man sat in the chair near the foot of the bed facing the door. He was reading from a tablet. He raised his head.
“Do you want the nurse, Mrs. Hart? I can call her for you.” The man spoke softly out of the darkness—another stranger, another voice she didn’t recognize.
“Water,” she whispered, pleased her voice sounded surer.
He stood, moved the few feet necessary to reach the side of the bed and the plastic tumbler, and brought it to her. Whatever he wore was dark, and he looked like a darker shadow against the dimness of the room.
“Thank you,” she whispered. He adjusted the straw to fit between her lips, and she drank deeply. The small exertion tired her, and she leaned back into her pillow.
“You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
She couldn’t imagine what such a gent
le giant was doing in her room. “Are you the night nurse?”
He chuckled. His voice was pleasant, and it reassured her. “Not exactly. I’m from Sentinel Security. I’m here to watch over you and keep you safe.”
“Like a guardian angel?”
“Sort of,” he answered. “Jason will be back in the morning. He’ll explain it all to you. Go back to sleep, Mrs. Hart. You’re safe.”
Jason? Who’s Jason?
• • •
Jason sat in his hotel room, his laptop computer open on the desk in front of him. The remnants of the steak room service had delivered earlier sat on the coffee table. The flat screen television was tuned into the baseball game. His team hadn’t made it to the World Series, but he enjoyed watching a good ball game. The Yankees were up by three, so he’d turned down the sound and got back to work. Knowing Brad wanted to talk to him had driven him to review all the case files. As usual, he started with the hardest part of the investigation.
He called up the audio file of the 911 call the operator had sent Rick. He’d made a copy of it for himself. How many times had he heard it over the last month and a half? Yet it still didn’t yield the answers he needed. If he’d ever expected it to ease his conscience, he’d been mistaken. It was an ulcer in his gut, eating at it each time he listened to it—and he listened often.
According to the coroner’s report, Danny was already dead when Nikki had made the call. He reached for the Scotch he’d poured himself and pressed play.
From the ragged sound of her breathing, she’d been in a lot of pain. He heard her muffled gasp, which he believed was when she’d been stabbed a second time. The technicians had been able to enhance the tape, and the killers’ voices now came across loud and clear. They’d determined the man who’d stabbed her first was named Leroy.
According to the FBI linguistics expert Jason had contacted, Leroy had a pronounced southern drawl from the Texas Panhandle. Jason had the FBI techs search every database available for criminals named Leroy who grew up in Texas, and although hundreds of names had popped up, few of them fit the bill. The half dozen they’d questioned all had rock-solid alibis.
Each man they’d brought in, regardless of which office had done it, had been asked to read the same script into a recorder for voice analysis and comparison.
Boss, there’s no one upstairs. The little girl’s room is empty. For a rich man, he didn’t live very high off the hog.
None of the voices had even come close.
There were no other names on the tape. The second man, the one who’d delivered the wound to her lower back, had a Midwest accent, which was harder to pin down. Millions of Americans from dozens of states spoke that way. The FBI had questioned a couple of known felons in the area and in Nevada and Colorado who’d been charged with aggravated assault, but nothing had stuck.
The recording captured the sounds of someone coming in from the garage, rooting through the cupboards, and going out again. They weren’t sure if he was the third man who’d spoken or someone else. There was no forensic evidence to suggest a fourth person had been there. Twice the man had mentioned the safe.
According to drug company records, Dr. Hart had recently received a new shipment of narcotics. Had this been about drugs? Had the doctor been supplying someone with prescription drugs and somehow cheated them? The father’s sin—the boss had said it was what they’d been told to write. But by whom?
Obviously a fourth person was involved, whether or not he’d been on the premises that night. Chances were good he hadn’t been. Those guys generally didn’t get involved in the dirty work. No survivors—kill everyone in the house. The words were branded in Jason’s mind. Who’d given the orders for the massacre?
According to the linguist, the man in charge at the house was a New Zealander. What the hell was a killer from New Zealand doing in the United States, let alone Larosa? He paused the audio file and refilled his glass. He stared outside at the driving rain, wishing it could wash away his guilt.
Listening to the attack on Nikki was always the worst, but he’d forced himself to listen to that dialogue over and over again until he knew every last inflection in the bastard’s voice. The time stamp indicated the attack had started at 9:30. Where had he been at that time? Picking up a six-pack. He couldn’t even look at the brand anymore without feeling guilt and shame.
He walked back to the computer and pushed play again. The man’s voice filled the room as he spoke to Nikki. Jason listened to him cut off her finger, and then kissed her. He heard the violent curses and what he now knew had been the bastard spitting on her. Unfortunately, by the time the techs had identified that sound, any viable DNA evidence had been lost. He stopped the audio file. He couldn’t listen to the beating again. There wasn’t much else on the recording.
Thomas Lincoln had been anxious to tear down the garage and kitchen on the house and rebuild them. Crime scenes didn’t have a high resale value. CID had gathered their evidence and given permission for the renovations to begin before he’d even gotten back to Larosa. Money talked.
He opened his case files and called up the timeline they’d established based on Molly’s phone records and the 911 tape. This was his own particular hair shirt.
The operator had taken the call at 9:10. She’d tried to get information from the caller and had relayed the call to Molly at 9:13. Molly had sent Buck to the Purple Grape earlier, but she’d tried him first. When he hadn’t answered, she’d called Jason at 9:15. At that point there were two lines on the screen—one showing what was happening in the Hart kitchen and another showing what he’d been doing at the time. Every time he looked at it, he questioned his decision to stay on the case. This chart was his dirty little secret. Sure, the kid at the convenience store knew he’d stopped by that night, but he hadn’t shared that with anyone. Rick had found the beer in the trunk, but hadn’t said a thing about it. There wasn’t enough forgiveness in the world to cover the role he’d played in this.
He reached for the envelope of crime scene photos. The ones on the top of the pile were those taken in the garage. He stared at the one showing the doctor’s mutilated hands. Why cut off his fingers? So far, no one had been able to answer that question.
Pete had suggested it was so no one could identify the doctor, but since everyone knew exactly who he was, that seemed unlikely—overkill at best. Lisa thought maybe he’d stolen something, and it was a punishment like the ones they’d meted out in Biblical times, but they’d have cut off the hands, not just the fingers.
It was possible whoever had done this had staged the robbery to cover up a crime of passion. It could be payback for a botched surgery. If that were the case, cutting off the offending fingers made sense. But Jason had gone through the doctor’s OR records and hadn’t found anything. The doctor had never even been sued for malpractice—a rare thing for surgeons these days.
The coroner had said his fingers had been removed, one at a time, while he’d been alive, but he couldn’t say if he’d been conscious. The tape across his mouth would have muffled his screams. Bruises on the body’s torso indicated Dr. Hart been badly beaten. Why the torture? The killers had taken the doctor’s fingers with them. Souvenirs? Proof they’d killed the right man? Anything was possible.
They’d taken everything the doctor kept in the safe, so that was a dead end. Now the only one who might be able to tell them what was in the safe was Nikki, and she might never remember. He examined the insurance photo of Nikki’s wedding band. They’d cut off Nikki’s finger to get it, but they’d left her finger behind. What had the man meant when he’d said its owner wanted it back? Was Lisa’s wild guess, that Dr. Hart had stolen the ring, right? More likely he’d unwittingly purchased a stolen ring.
According to the insurance record, the red stones were diamonds, not rubies. He’d never even heard of red diamonds, but all of the area jewelers he’d spoken to had agreed the ring was worth a small fortune.
They’d circulated the picture to every diamond
merchant and high-end jewelry store in the country and got nothing. Last week, at Jason’s request, the FBI had sent the picture and the MO from the incident to Interpol, Beijing, Tokyo, and Australia. So far, nothing had come of it, but these things took time. It was only on television that vicious crimes could be solved in an hour. In reality it took months, years, and sadly, some were never solved.
Jason pushed away from the computer, the timeline still up on its screen, and dropped the photograph of the ring on the desk. He downed the last of the whiskey. Maybe he’d go down to the hotel fitness center. They had a heavy bag down there that would let him blow off some steam, and then he’d swim laps until he’d be too exhausted to think about hazel eyes staring at him. He’d picked up a swimsuit in the store in the lobby, had paid three times what he’d have paid for it in Larosa, but it would do. He’d have to buy some clothes tomorrow. It didn’t look like he’d be going home anytime soon.
Chapter Six
Jason let himself into his hotel room. He was exhausted. He must have done thirty laps after pounding the shit out of that bag. He went into the bathroom, showered to rinse the chlorine from his body, and poured himself another Scotch. He pulled on his boxers and walked back to the computer. The screen was black, but a flick of the mouse brought up the timeline again. He was about to open a second file when his cell phone rang. He checked the display. It was Rick returning his call.
“Hi, bro, thanks for calling back.”
“I tried earlier, but there was no answer.”
“I was down at the pool. Listen, I won’t be back for a while. Nikki Hart woke up this morning and . . . ”
“Is she going to be able to ID the attackers?” Rick cut him off.
“Not likely. She’s got amnesia. Her doctor and I held a press conference. It’ll probably make the eleven o’clock news. We wanted to make sure everyone knew she didn’t remember anything in case someone decided to come back and finish the job.”
