Silent Rain

by Karin Salvalaggio

  “Wouldn’t it be better to send someone else? Surely, Alisa can manage it.”

  “I really think I should see the property firsthand. So far there hasn’t been much to look at that gives me a sense of who they were.”

  “Well, I think that’s about to change.”

  “What’s going on? Did you find something?”

  “All in good time, Detective Greeley.” Ryan pointed to a tent that had been erected in the middle of the backyard. “The boots you’re wearing are fine. You’ll find everything else you need in there.”

  Macy came waddling out in an oversize yellow shell suit and hardhat. “I’m beginning to think that you do this so you can make fun of me.”

  Ryan held up his camera and took her picture. “I would have set aside a smaller suit, but after all those pancakes you had for breakfast I thought it was best to go large.”

  “You’re such a bastard.”

  “Correction … charming bastard.” Ryan checked the photo he’d just taken and laughed. “I think I’ll shoot this off to your boyfriend. No doubt Aiden will be amused.”

  “Don’t forget that I have pictures of you plowing through a couple glasses of wine last night. I’m sure your new boyfriend won’t be too happy that you’re not keeping up your end of the deal.”

  “I’ve already confessed. He now thinks you’re a bad influence.”

  Macy held up a hand. “I’m in a hurry and I don’t like you very much right now. Tell me what you know or I’m going to shoot you.”

  “Do I look concerned?” Ryan checked his clipboard. “First, the boring stuff. We are almost certain that a few paintings have been stolen. One was a Basquiat.”

  Macy whistled. “Christ, if I’ve actually heard of the artist it must be valuable. How much are we talking?”

  “Around eleven million, depending on how the wind is blowing in the art market.”

  “That certainly changes things. Anything else?”

  “A set of prints by Frank Stella.”

  Macy gave him a blank expression.

  “You’re such a philistine,” he said.

  “No reason for name calling. Is that all that’s missing?”

  “Nope. Prints by David Hockney and Roy Lichtenstein can’t be accounted for.”

  “What about the damage to Hannah’s studio? Anything stolen?”

  “It turns out the art world got lucky on that count. Most of her work wasn’t stored on site and her recent stuff was shipped to her New York gallery a couple of weeks ago. She has a show opening there two weeks from today. Hate to sound morbid but she’s going to sell for a lot more money if she’s dead.”

  “Was any of her work lost?”

  “Definitely, but it’s not as bad as we initially thought. Her most recent work wasn’t cataloged so there may be more that’s been stolen. A little warning, this is just a preliminary finding.” He glanced back at the house. “We still have a lot of wreckage to sift through.”

  Ryan and Macy made their way over to the house. The blackened timber frame groaned as a gust of wind blew through the treetops. Macy had no intention of going inside.

  “That’s close enough,” said Macy. “What is it you wanted me to see?”

  “The basement.”

  Her voice went up an octave. “Is it safe?”

  “I hope so. My team is down there.”

  Ryan pointed to a pair of wooden doors built into a small raised platform that was set down at a slight angle to the home’s foundation. The debris that had been blocking the cellar had been removed. Thick power cables dropped into the hole from a generator that hummed next to the entrance.

  Macy frowned. “Please tell me you didn’t find any more dead bodies.”

  “No, but I did find a couple more fuel cans. The same make as the ones found at the neighbor’s property.”

  “Any prints?”

  “Only Peter Granger’s.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  Macy followed Ryan down a narrow set of wooden steps. The interior was lit up with temporary lighting.

  “Careful,” he said. “The steps are pretty slippery.”

  Macy found herself standing in the basement of the Granger’s home. Some wooden stairs led up to what she guessed was the kitchen, and a half-dozen storage shelves took up most of the floor space. Water sloshed on the concrete floor and dripped from the ceiling.

  “There’s no fire damage down here,” said Macy.

  “We got lucky. This area is pretty sealed off and the fire spread upwards; the water found a way in though. The puddles are pretty deep in some places, so watch your step. The interesting stuff is over here,” said Ryan.

  Ahead Macy could see a doorway opening onto a brightly lit interior.

  “The doorway was hidden behind some shelving,” said Ryan. “If it wasn’t for one of the engineers the state hired to secure the structure upstairs, we may not have noticed there was a discrepancy between the plans filed with the city and the layout of the basement. The Grangers were keeping secrets.”

  Macy stood in the threshold of the long rectangular room crowded with crime scene techs. There was a king-size bed with a wooden headboard at one end, a small seating area, and a wet bar. A separate doorway led through to a bathroom. Though there were no windows, the room was well ventilated. Macy recognized one of the chairs and the bed from the photos they’d found in Hannah’s office.

  “There’s soundproofing in the ceiling and the wall separating this room from the rest of the basement. The door is four inches thick,” said Ryan. “There’s a fan pumping in fresh air, a full bar, Wi-Fi, and satellite television.”

  “The photographs were taken in this room.”

  Ryan nodded. “That does appear to be the case. I found a Polaroid camera in the side table next to the bed.”

  “Any more photos?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “Do you think they were keeping someone down here?”

  “That was my first thought, but the door doesn’t lock from the outside. It locks from the inside.”

  “Cornelia says there were rumors about sex parties.”

  “Then we may have found the Granger’s secret den. The furniture lit up like the Fourth of July when we checked for ejaculate.”

  “That’s disgusting. Anything else?”

  Ryan picked up an evidence bag. “A stash of pharmaceuticals, including Rohypnol, the pervert’s drug of choice.”

  “The girls in the photos looked as if they’d been drugged.”

  “They did indeed.” Ryan handed Macy another evidence bag. “Their faces were covered with a mask. I’m pretty sure this is it.”

  “We’ll be able to get DNA?”

  “Lots of samples.” He held out his arms. “This is going to keep the state forensics lab in Helena busy for some time.”

  “Missing paintings and sex parties.” Macy headed for the stairs. “Things just got a lot more interesting in Bolton.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need to call Alisa. She’ll have to go check out the Granger’s other property on her own.”

  9

  Thursday

  Grace stood outside the front entrance to her apartment building and watched as the woman who lived across the hall from her sorted through a pile of mail. Sandra was a talker and Grace, having spent the last few hours in the hospital with Jessica, was in no mood to talk. She thought she might wait in her car until Sandra moved on, but it was too late. Sandra had spotted her. Sandra’s brightly manicured fingers fluttered in the air, her version of waving. She was a recent transplant from New York and worked in sales for a local software company. An uncommon sight in Bolton, she was always immaculately turned out and wouldn’t be caught dead wearing exercise gear in public. She opened the door for Grace and frowned.

  “Grace, I hope you didn’t lose your keys. Between you and me, the people in this building are a little slow. How hard is it to keep track of your stuff?”

  Grace tried
to look friendly.

  “Good morning, Sandra. How are you?”

  “We need to talk about your dog.” She pointed a long fingernail at Grace. “He kept me up half the night. If he’s not barking, he’s whining at the door. Why do you own a dog if you’re not going to take care of it? I had an uncle like that. He ended up getting a fine. When he couldn’t pay the fine they threw him in jail. Believe me when I say that you don’t want that to happen to you. His wife left him, got full custody of the kids, the house, everything.”

  Sandra was pretty intense when she was angry. A few weeks earlier she’d had a go at the guy who lived below her because he was always coming home drunk in the middle of the night. He managed to stick up for himself at first but didn’t really stand a change once Sandra was in full flow.

  Grace braced herself. This wasn’t the first time Sandra had complained about the dog.

  “I’m so sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.” Grace quickly moved on to another subject. “Are you on your way to work?”

  Sandra looked disappointed that Grace hadn’t wanted to spar.

  “Yes, Grace. That’s what grown-ups do.” Sandra gave Grace a once-over. “What is this then? A walk of shame? You don’t look like you’ve slept at all.”

  “My friend had to go into the hospital. I was there most of the night.”

  Sandra’s expression softened.

  “Are they going to be okay?” she asked.

  Grace slipped off her hat. She couldn’t think about what had happened without revisiting a dimly lit hallway that smelled vaguely of vomit, and she wasn’t ready to go back there yet.

  “I hope so,” said Grace.

  Sandra combed her long fingernails through her hair, gave it a little fluff. Her dark roots were showing. She was already slipping. Another year in Bolton and she’d be sorting the mail in her pajamas.

  “A guy rang my bell yesterday evening looking for you and then got mad when I wouldn’t let him in the building. Figured if he really knew you, he’d know which apartment you lived in.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “He was gone by the time I came downstairs.” Sandra nodded toward a table in the entryway. “He left you a package.”

  A box covered in floral wrapping paper sat next to a pile of unopened mail. Grace’s name was written in capital letters on a yellow Post-it note that was stuck to the top.

  “Were you expecting something?” asked Sandra.

  “Maybe it’s a mistake. I doubt I’m the only woman named Grace who lives around here.”

  “Oh, honey, this was no mistake. He knew what you looked like. When I wouldn’t confirm that you lived here he described you—petite, pale, dark haired, and dresses like she’s still living in the fifties. I’d say he nailed it.” Sandra touched Grace’s sleeve. “Nice coat, by the way; not everyone can get away with wearing that shade of green.”

  Grace picked up the box. It was lighter in weight than she expected. She gave it a gentle shake.

  “Maybe you have a secret admirer,” said Sandra. She was standing at Grace’s shoulder. The chemical scent of hairspray lingered uncomfortably with her perfume. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  Grace peeled away the paper and removed the lid. The shoes she’d lost on Halloween night were wrapped in white tissue paper.

  “He gave you shoes?” Sandra looked horrified. “They’re not even new. What kind of guy gives a girl an old pair of shoes?”

  * * *

  Grace could hear her dog scratching frantically on the other side of the door. Once safely inside, Grace got down on her knees and buried her face in his black fur. Pound for pound Jack was the best thing in her life.

  “Hi baby. Did you miss me?” she asked.

  Lara walked into the living room balancing a bowl of cereal and a pile of textbooks. She spoke with her mouth full.

  “We both missed you. I was beginning to worry.”

  Grace dropped her bag on the floor and hung her coat on the back of a dining chair. Jack didn’t leave her side.

  “I ran into Sandra downstairs. She said Jack was up half the night barking,” said Grace.

  “Sandra’s full of shit. I was home all evening. Jack didn’t make so much as a peep.” Lara noticed the box. “What’s that?”

  “It’s the shoes I lost on Halloween. Sandra said some guy dropped them off outside the front door yesterday evening.”

  Lara set aside her bowl of cereal. “Why in the hell would someone do that?”

  Grace lifted the lid. “Maybe he mistook me for Cinderella. He even wrapped them in tissue.”

  “Grace, it’s not funny. It’s creepy. Is there a card?”

  “Nothing quite so romantic as that. Only a yellow Post-it note with my name on it.”

  “You should call the police.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “There’s nothing to think about. You don’t need any more craziness in your life right now.”

  Jack jumped up and curled against Grace’s side as soon as she sat down on the sofa. He put his head on her lap and looked up at her expectantly. She scratched behind his ears.

  “I’m well aware of that. I’m just too tired to deal with it right now,” said Grace.

  “Were you in the studio all night?”

  “Only until three.” Grace leaned across her dog’s side. She could hear his heart beating. “Jessica Reynolds was there.”

  “Did you speak to her? Is there news about Peter and Hannah?”

  “Nothing we didn’t already know. She’d been drinking.” Grace hesitated. “I ended up driving her home.”

  “So, that’s where you were. Did you stay at her house?” asked Lara.

  “It didn’t feel right to leave her alone. She was in a pretty bad way.”

  “She shouldn’t dump this stuff on you. Doesn’t she have any friends her own age?”

  “It’s so sad. I think Hannah was her entire life.” Grace blinked away the tears in her eyes. “She may have tried to kill herself.”

  “No way.”

  “I found her passed out in the hallway. She overdosed on Xanax. I don’t know if it was intentional.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Grace’s chin bobbed up and down. “She’s regained consciousness.”

  “That’s got to be a good sign.”

  Grace noticed the newspaper on the coffee table was open to a story about Peter Granger’s writing career.

  “How are you holding up?” asked Grace.

  “I guess I’m fine.”

  “I still haven’t got ahold of Taylor. Have you heard from her?”

  “I’m not exactly her favorite person, so I doubt she’d want to speak to me unless she was desperate,” said Lara.

  “I have her parent’s address in Colorado. Her boyfriend said she was going to see them.”

  “What are you going to do? Send them a letter?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Grace, if she can’t pick up the phone and let you know she’s okay that’s on her. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

  Grace wasn’t sure what to do about Taylor. She didn’t seem to be the type of person who would run back to her parent’s house at the first sign of trouble. Besides, she had a difficult relationship with her mother. On a couple of occasions Grace had overheard them arguing on the phone. It didn’t sound like she would be too supportive when she found out her daughter was pregnant. But then again, what did Grace know about mothers? She’d been raised by her aunt.

  “Is there a way of getting Taylor’s parent’s phone number using their name and address?” asked Lara.

  “I tried, but their number isn’t listed.”

  Lara’s phone buzzed.

  “I’ve got a text from Clare,” said Lara.

  “I thought you guys weren’t speaking.”

  “We fight all the time. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Seemed like a big deal to me.”

  Lara frowned as s
he read the message. “An anonymous source in the police department is claiming the remains have been identified.”

  “And?”

  “Just a sec. She sent me a link.”

  Lara bit into a fingernail that was already shredded. Grace started to say something but stopped. She quietly waited for a memory to pass. Her aunt was forever swatting Grace’s fingers away from her mouth but it never worked. The only thing that stopped Grace from chewing her fingernails was leaving home. She stared down at her perfectly manicured hands. Grace wondered what her aunt would say if she could see her now. No doubt she’d comment on her posture. Grace sat up a little straighter.

  “Grace?” said Lara.

  Grace gave Lara a blank look.

  “Sometimes it’s like talking to a wall,” said Lara. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

  Grace tried to focus. “Don’t take it personally. I was up half the night.”

  “They’ve identified Peter’s remains but not Hannah’s. Apparently, it’s going to take more time.”

  “Why?”

  Lara’s face was ashen. She dropped her phone on the cushion.

  “It’s just some rubbish blog. I don’t understand why Clare is taking it so seriously.”

  Grace put her arms around Lara. It was only a matter of time before her friend cracked. Peter Granger had factored heavily in Lara’s dreams of literary success. He couldn’t force a publisher to buy her novel but he’d opened a lot of doors for her. Without his patronage it was going to be far more difficult for Lara to get noticed.

  “Seriously, Lara, are you okay?” asked Grace.

  Lara didn’t look sad. She looked angry.

  “Truthfully, I’m relieved he’s dead.”

  “It’s probably best that you keep that to yourself.”

  “It doesn’t mean that I wished him dead. He could have moved to another country and never had anything to do with us again and that would have been fine too.”

  Grace hesitated. “He’s been playing with your head for the past two years. One day he praised you, the next he treated you like shit. For him it was all a big game.”

  “Grace, you don’t know the half of it.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”