“Anyway, apparently she and another young woman, a Mia Walters, had been sent over to show a house on Sutton Street,” Vincent continued. “I’m not sure if they were coming or going from the house, but someone opened fire on them when they were in the car.”
Stacy gaped at him, her taut, high-cheekboned face going slack. “Someone what?”
“Shot at them. Three times with a rifle. The other woman was killed. I don’t know how Brooke was spared unless the shooter thought he got her, too, and didn’t hang around to find out.”
“Someone shot at her with a rifle?” Stacy breathed.
Vincent nodded. “Afterward, Brooke turned up at my father’s house. It’s close to the place on Sutton where the shooting occurred and she seemed to remember it, although she wasn’t clear about other things. She had a head injury, so we called an ambulance. My father insisted I come with her to the hospital.”
“Oh my God,” Stacy mumbled. “This is incredible.”
“I know.”
“Who would want to kill Mia?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t know her at all. But I think there was a mistake and the target was Brooke.”
“Why?” Stacy asked sharply.
“I’ve learned from my father that in the middle of the night Brooke’s stepfather broke out of Mount Olive Correctional Center. The police think he has a car and a gun, and he could certainly have made it to Charleston by this time.” He paused. “Brooke was the only eyewitness in his trial. Maybe he was the shooter and she was his target.”
Stacy made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes. “I can’t believe this! Then you think that Tavell guy thought he’d killed Brooke?”
“I don’t know any more than my father could find out from the police. Dad’s been retired for four years now, but he still has some sources of information.”
“Maybe I can find out more,” Stacy said. “Believe it or not, my husband is a detective, too. He’s just second grade, but then, he’s only thirty. I’m sure in a couple of years he’ll be promoted to first grade. And he’s just been assigned as partner to this really great detective everyone thinks walks on water, Hal Myers. Anyway, Jay has probably heard of your father.” She looked at Vincent closely. “But it’s not just your father’s name I recognize. There’s something about you. Are your eyes really that green or do you wear colored contacts?”
“I don’t wear contacts,” Vincent said, suddenly noticing several people peering at his face, focusing on his eyes.
“Well, your eyes are really remarkable. Sexy and not something I’d forget,” Stacy went on relentlessly. “I’ve seen you before.”
“I don’t think so.” Vincent pretended to look at something on his shoe and wished Stacy would lower her voice. “I live in California. Monterey.”
“Do you visit often?”
“Not often enough.”
“But I feel like I know you.”
Vincent sighed. “I write books. My father wanted me to be a cop, but I didn’t really want to, so now I just write about them. Maybe you’ve read one and seen a photo of me on the cover. . . .”
“That’s it!” Stacy exclaimed. “You’re a writer! Wait a minute.” She scrunched up her forehead in thought. “Murder in a Small Town!”
“That was my first book.”
“And I’m actually reading one right now! Your picture is on the flap. That’s why you looked familiar to me! You have a trench coat on and a devilish look in your eyes.”
“I remember the trench coat—that was the photographer’s idea—but a devilish look?”
“Definitely a devilish look.”
“Oh. Well . . .” So she wanted to flirt. Even though she was married, even though she was worried about her friend. Although he was annoyed, Vincent was never one to let a woman embarrass him into self-conscious verbal stumbling. “I guess I’m just naturally devilish.”
“I knew it!” Stacy plunged on. “The book I’m reading now is Dark Moon.”
“Black Moon.”
“Of course! Black Moon! And my friend told me if I like Black Moon, I’ll love Last Good-bye.”
“My latest. Your friend has excellent taste,” Vincent said dryly.
“I can’t believe it. I’m sitting here talking to the writer of best-selling books!” she exclaimed loudly.
“Yes, so you are.” Vincent grew more irritated, wishing she’d quit yammering on even if she was being flattering. People in the waiting room were now glancing at him as if they expected him to do something special because he was somebody. That always made him uncomfortable with what he considered his small bit of celebrity. Besides, he always felt odd about his profession, probably because his father had never considered “making up stories” a manly way to earn a living.
“Does this shooting mean Brooke will get twenty-four-hour police protection now?” Stacy asked abruptly.
Vincent blinked, then realized she’d mercifully changed the subject. The flirting session appeared to have ended. “I’m not sure about surveillance. Your husband could probably answer that question better than I can.”
“Yes, I guess so.” Stacy abruptly stood up and walked the perimeter of the waiting room. She wore tight jeans and a skimpy tank top. Vincent guessed her to be about five foot nine, with the toned body of someone who worked out regularly. She was certainly striking, if not his particular idea of beautiful, and he noticed the male gazes following her restless pacing, most of them focused on her chest, which looked as if it had paid a visit to a plastic surgeon for enhancement. Vincent wondered if in the past she’d done some modeling.
Finally, she glanced at her watch and headed grimly out of the waiting room. She’d given the hospital staff fifteen minutes to get a report on Brooke to her. Vincent looked at his own watch. Eighteen minutes had passed by! Someone was in for trouble now, he thought with amusement.
Luckily, at that moment the harried-looking woman from behind the reception desk appeared at the waiting room door, nearly colliding with Stacy. Stacy turned and motioned for him to come. Like a dog, he thought. All she’d needed to say was, “Here, boy!”
In the hall, the reception clerk said nervously, “Ms. Yeager is in Examining Room Four. You can go in now,” before quickly retreating to her desk as if she thought Stacy might do her bodily harm before she could seek cover.
They found the correct examining room. Brooke sat huddled on a table garbed in some kind of paper contraption from the waist up and a white blanket wrapped around her from the waist down to her ankles. Her pale feet with their bright red toenails dangled above the floor.
Stacy rushed to her and enfolded Brooke in her arms. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry about the shooting. This guy”—Stacy jerked her head in Vincent’s direction—“told me what happened.”
Brooke cast him a slightly vague glance, as if she didn’t quite recognize him, and Stacy looked at her closely. “You do remember him, don’t you?”
“Y-yes. Sure.”
“What’s his name?”
“Vincent Lockhart.”
“He is Detective Lockhart’s son, right?” Stacy continued. “All he did was come with you to the hospital? You’re certain he didn’t do anything to hurt you?”
Vincent bristled at Stacy’s suspicious tone. Did she think he’d made up the whole tale of the shooting to cover up an attack on Brooke he’d made?
“He is Sam Lockhart’s son.” Brooke’s voice sounded stronger and more definite than earlier. “He helped me. He’s been very good to me, Stacy.”
“What did you think?” Vincent sarcastically asked Stacy. “That I attacked Brooke, risked getting caught by the cops to bring her here, then I called you and just hung around so you could praise my books?”
Stacy gave him her narrow-eyed look, then said insincerely, “I apologized. I told you I get rude when I’m nervous.”
“You said you get bitchy,” Vincent corrected. “It’s more accurate.”
“Do either of you care how I am?” Brooke asked
, some of her usual feisty spirit returning. “Or would you prefer I just keep quiet so you two can keep sniping at each other?”
Vincent and Stacy looked at her guiltily. “I’m sorry,” they said at the same time. Stacy continued, “This has just been so upsetting.”
“No kidding,” Brooke returned sourly. She suddenly wished she hadn’t asked Vincent to call Stacy. Stacy was her closest friend, but she was high-strung and not always great at creating a calm atmosphere. At least Vincent didn’t care enough about her to cause a stir. “This hasn’t been one of the best evenings of my life, either, Stacy.”
Stacy’s high-cheekboned face turned red. “God, here I am, thinking about myself. Jay would say that’s typical.”
Brooke shook her head. “No, he wouldn’t. Jay adores you.”
“Yeah, well, love is blind. And in his case, mute.” Stacy shook her head. “Sorry for being so egocentric, Brooke. How are you? Any serious injuries?”
Brooke touched the bandage on the left side of her head. “A bullet grazed me.”
“Oh my God!” Stacy exploded.
“It just tore the skin, but I guess scalp wounds bleed a lot,” Brooke said, wincing at Stacy’s loud voice. “It’s nothing like what happened to Mia.”
Brooke abruptly began to shudder and Stacy put her arms around her again. “I never met Mia, but I know you liked her.”
“Someone shot her. Over and over and over,” Brooke said flatly. “I just don’t know why.”
Stacy looked at Vincent. Clearly, she was asking if they should tell Brooke about the escape of Zachary Tavell. Vincent was surprised that Stacy had even considered his opinion in the matter. He shook his head no. After what Brooke had just been through, he thought the last thing she needed to hear was that the man who had murdered her mother was on the loose. She might go into hysterics, and no one, least of all him, needed that right now. Of course, Brooke had to hear about Tavell soon, but perhaps he’d ask the doctor to give her a mild tranquilizer first.
“I’ll be right back,” Vincent mumbled, and slipped out of the examining room door, but not before hearing Stacy ask, “Has he been nice to you or a pain in the ass?” He forced himself not to stop and listen to Brooke’s answer.
Forty-five minutes later, Brooke had dressed again in her bloody suit (“If I’d known, I could have brought some clean clothes from home,” Stacy had said), and the three of them traveled through the night to Brooke’s apartment building. Vincent and Stacy helped Brooke up to Apartment 312 and Stacy found Brooke’s key in her purse.
They entered a small but neat living room, decorated in cream and saffron yellow with an occasional splash of hibiscus pink. On one wall hung a beautifully framed excellent Degas print, and Vincent noted a wall lined with bookcases, all bulging with hardcovers and paperbacks. His opinion of Brooke rose a bit. She was obviously an avid reader like himself.
A blond dog ran toward them, a slender-boned mixed-breed, about forty pounds, Vincent guessed, and shy. Brooke bent to cuddle her. The dog joyfully licked Brooke’s nose, then looked at Vincent with trepidation in her sherry brown eyes. “This is Elise,” Brooke explained, kissing the top of the dog’s head and rubbing her floppy ears. “I got her at the pound when she was only about six weeks old. I named her for Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise.’ It’s my grandmother’s favorite song.”
“I like that,” Vincent said. “I’m surprised you’re allowed to have a dog in an apartment, though.”
“I pay extra.” Brooke fondled the dog some more. “Plus she’s house-trained. And very quiet.”
At that moment, Elise let out a sharp bark. “Shhhh,” Brooke said. “I know my suit smells strange, but I’ll change in a minute.” Her voice shook. “Actually, I’ll get rid of the suit—”
Bark. Bark. BARK!
“Good heavens, what’s wrong with you?” Brooke said, holding Elise’s slim face in her hands and looking into her eyes. “You never make this much noise!”
“Maybe she senses that you’re upset,” Vincent said. The doctor had agreed to a Valium, and after he’d given it to Brooke, Vincent and Stacy waited about thirty minutes until it began to take effect, then told Brooke as gently as they could about Zach Tavell’s escape from prison. Brooke had taken the news calmly—the calm a result of the tranquilizer or shock, Vincent couldn’t tell—but she wasn’t acting agitated now. Of course, dogs could sense tension in their owners that humans couldn’t. They could smell heightened adrenaline. Maybe Elise was more aware of Brooke’s true state of being than either Vincent or Stacy. The dog quivered, then ran over to the door and sniffed at a sheet of paper Vincent hadn’t noticed when they entered.
Stacy walked to the door and Elise stood back while Stacy stooped and picked up a folded sheet of white paper.
“What is it?” Brooke asked.
“It’s—” Stacy read it silently, then exclaimed, “God, I shouldn’t have just picked it up! Jay has taught me better police technique than this. Is there a tissue handy?”
“What is it?” Brooke demanded. She stood and walked to Stacy’s side, yanking the paper out of her hand. Brooke went motionless, simply staring at the note for a moment as her pale face turned even paler. Finally, she read aloud:
“ ‘Until We Meet Again.’ ”
four
1
Brooke looked up with frightened violet-blue eyes. “He was here.”
“Someone was here.” Vincent felt his own stomach tightening at the thought that the man who had slaughtered a young woman just a few hours earlier had already invaded Brooke’s home, the man prison officials said had almost completely stopped talking and started communicating in notes. He knew, though, his keeping a calm tone might prevent Brooke from spiraling into a full-blown panic attack. “The note could have been left by that guy you used to date. Robert, wasn’t it?”
“Is that Robert’s handwriting?” Stacy asked.
“It’s printed,” Brooke pointed out. “Printed in big, sloppy letters.”
Stacy frowned. “How long has it been since you’ve seen Robert?”
“Actually seen him? Almost three weeks. But he’s left dozens of messages on my answering machine and two days ago he sent flowers to my office.”
“You’re staying with us tonight,” Stacy announced to Brooke. “This is Jay’s poker night, but he’ll be home soon. You’ll feel perfectly safe with a police detective in the apartment.”
“You’re allergic to dogs,” Brooke said, looking at Elise.
“So the dog will stay here.”
Brooke shook her head. “And howl all night for me? I don’t think so.”
Stacy threw the dog an offhanded look. “She’ll settle down after a while.”
“I want Elise with me tonight,” Brooke said in a loud, firm voice. “That settles the matter.”
Stacy looked surprised. “Well, you’re very bossy tonight.”
“And you’re bossy all the time,” Brooke fired back.
With what Vincent had observed to be one of her typical mood swings, Stacy suddenly started laughing. “You’re right. I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Well, you did!” Brooke burst out. “And I don’t see what’s so funny!”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Vincent said, feeling as if his neck had turned to concrete and his head might burst before this horrible evening ever ended. “I agree that Brooke doesn’t need to be alone tonight, even though the police are going to provide surveillance. Dad and I are dog lovers. Brooke and Elise can stay at the house with us.” Stacy gave him a hard look. “We have four bedrooms. She doesn’t have to share a bed with Dad or me and I assure you, Stacy, neither one of us is a rapist. Does that suit everyone?”
“No, it does not!” Stacy flared. “The idea of Brooke spending the night with two strange men—”
“We’re not strange,” Vincent said innocently.
“You know what I mean. Brooke doesn’t know you. She’d be terribly uncomfortable.”
“N
o, I wouldn’t,” Brooke said with unexpected calm. “I went to that house earlier because it represented security to me. It still does.” She threw an unconvincingly warm smile at Stacy. “I know you’re trying to look out for me, but this is really the best solution, at least for tonight.”
“Good!” Vincent said, not sure if he’d offered the invitation to annoy Stacy or because he had some puzzling concern for Brooke. After all, Brooke Yeager was still an unknown quantity as far as he was concerned. Stacy opened her mouth to protest, but Vincent was determined not to waver. “Look, Stacy, we’ll have the surveillance moved to our house. There Brooke will have police on the outside of a house, not a big apartment building, and two men will be inside, one of them a former cop.”
Stacy sighed, then looked resigned. “Okay, kiddo,” she said to Brooke. “I guess you should do what makes you comfortable, not what makes me comfortable, and I’ll stop giving orders.”
“Is that possible for you?” Vincent sniped.
Before Stacy could snap back an answer, someone tapped on the apartment door. Stacy, Brooke, and Vincent looked at one another blankly, as if bewildered by some strange phenomenon, until a man called out, “Hey, it’s me. Harry. You got some trouble in there?”
Brooke and Stacy let out pent-up breath. “Harry Dormer,” Stacy said to Vincent. “He’s the combination building superintendent and handyman.”
She opened the door and Harry strode in, bright yellow polo shirt stretched tightly across his fifty-inch gut, which hung over the waistband of baggy jeans. He wore filthy running shoes, a baseball cap atop gray-brown hair, and some kind of locket on a silver chain. Vincent peered closer. The locket was clear plastic and contained a gigantic black widow spider, hopefully fake. A guy had to be confident to wear that kind of jewelry, Vincent thought, trying not to grin.
Last Whisper Page 5
