by Roy Johansen
Joe was speechless for a good fifteen seconds. When he regained the ability to form words, he said, “Together? The two of you?”
Cal raised an eyebrow and mock-whispered to Carla, “Sharp. Real sharp. Can't get anything past my boy. They call him the Spirit Basher, you know.”
Nikki giggled.
Joe still had trouble processing it.”How long?”
Carla snuggled close to Cal. “About eight months, hon. We got acquainted when I took Nikki down to stay with him in Savannah. I went back the next weekend and pretty near every weekend after that.”
“Why didn't either of you tell me?”
“That was my fault,” Cal said.”I just wanted to keep a lid on it for a while. You work with Carla, and I wanted to keep things separate.”
Carla smiled teasingly. “Aww, listen to that malarkey. He just didn't want to complicate things if we turned out to be nothing more than a little fling.”
“That wasn't it,” Cal said.
“Sure it was, big guy. I didn't mind.”
Joe wondered if the shock still showed on his face. He glanced at Nikki.”You knew?”
Still smiling, she nodded.
Cal patted Nikki on the head. “Carla joined us for dinner almost every night Nikki was in Savannah. I asked Nikki to keep it our secret for a while.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”Joe asked.
“I'm telling you now.”
Carla touched Joe's arm. “Are you okay, hon?”
“Sure. I mean, you're two of my favorite people. I just thought you'd scarcely more than met.”
Cal gestured toward the open door. “Joe, you look like you could use a steak.”
“And maybe a few stiff drinks.”
Carla slipped her arm through Joe's. “By the end of the evening, I might even have you talked into giving me away.”
Dylan slid his key card into Tess Wayland's hotel door lock and listened as the tumblers clicked. Perfect. He'd come earlier with his modified Palm Pilot and attached reader, which was all he needed to obtain the current magnetic code. With that, it had been a simple matter to encode the silver magnetic card he always carried with him.
He slipped inside the room and locked the dead bolt behind him. He didn't think Tess would be coming back anytime soon, but he couldn't risk her catching him.
He glanced around the room, looking for any portable alarm devices or motion detectors. Such gadgets were becoming increasingly popular among professional women who travel alone. They were rarely used during the day, however, when the housekeeping staff would be running in and out. And what could possibly happen in beautiful Atlanta, Georgia?
Nothing besides a few nasty serial murders.
No alarms, no cameras, no sensors. Dylan walked toward the cluttered dresser. He rifled through a stack of papers. He would've rather taken a look around the Monica Gaines's Psychic Worldproduction offices, but staffers had been working around the clock since their arrival. It wouldn't be impossible to get in and take a look, but there was far less risk here.
He found a stack of notes, torn from a hotel pad, next to the telephone. He squinted to see past the coffee stains. Nothing of use, he realized. Just the usual innocuous bullshit—a pet-sitter's phone number, rental car confirmation codes, address of a local talent agency, and—
Wait a minute.
Here it was. He raised the piece of notepaper and memorized the address written on it.
Jackpot.
Cal smiled. “Hey, I think the dazed look is starting to wear off.”
Joe dropped down on the sofa. It had been astrange evening, watching his father and Carla kissing, holding hands, and exchanging their private little jokes. Carla had gone home after dinner and Nikki was now in bed. “I admit to being a little surprised, but I really don't have a problem with it, Dad.”
“Not even a little bit? She's younger than you are, you know.”
“That doesn't make any difference. You're both old enough to know what you want. I've never seen her so happy.”
“I'm happy too.”
“Well, I hope it lasts this time.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You're not exactly the relationship-longevity king. I don't want to see her get hurt. She's not like those Savannah tourists that you romance for a week, then drop off at the airport. Carla's taking this a little more seriously than a fling.”
“So am I. Hey, did I tell you that one of those nice little women wanted me to live with her in North Dakota? Poor thing was pretty upset with me when I had to decline.”
“That's what I'm talking about. Carla has no shortage of admirers, but I can tell that she really likes you.”
Cal's expression sobered.”I know how lucky I am. I tried to tell her she'd be better off with a younger guy, but she wouldn't believe it. Trust me, I wouldn't do anything to hurt her.”
“If you do, half the department will be coming down on you. And I'll be leading the charge.”
“Got it. Lecture over?”
“For the moment.” Joe emptied his pockets andplaced his wallet and keys on the coffee table. He stared at the phone numbers thatTess had given him.
“What's that?” Cal asked.
“A couple of phone numbers. The top one's a cell phone that Monica Gaines used. The second is a number that she called. She had a habit of disappearing for weeks at a time, and she phoned this number a couple of times during one of those disappearances.”
“Have you called it yet?”
“No, I figure I'll wait and—”
Cal snatched the scrap of paper from his hand. He picked up the cordless phone and began punching numbers.
“Dad, don't do that.”
“Why the hell not? I suppose you were going to run the number through a database and get the person's name first.”
“It had occurred to me.”
“Takes too much time. I've always liked the direct approach better.”
Joe tried to snatch the paper, but Cal held it out of reach.”Dad, this isn't your investigation.”
Cal finished punching in the number. “Consider it a professional courtesy.”
“It's not the way we do things anymore. Hang up now.”
Cal put the phone to his ear.
“It's after eleven,”Joe said.”It's too late to do this.”
“No, it's the perfect time. If we wake them up, they'll be less likely to censor themselves.”
“Dad …”
Cal held up a finger and spoke into the phone.
“Good evening, ma'am. I'm calling on behalf of Atlanta Police Detective Joe Bailey. I'm sorry for phoning so late. Can you tell me how you know Monica Gaines?” He glanced at Joe.”She's your sister?”
Joe held out his hand for the phone.
Cal nodded. “I see. Please hold for Detective Bailey.”
Joe took the phone.”I'm sorry for the disturbance, ma'am. What is your name?”
The woman spoke with a slight nasal pinch that reminded him of Monica's voice. “Lesley Burge. Are you calling to tell me Monica has—”
“No. Her condition is very serious though.”
“I know. My daughter's been ill and I haven't been able to get away. I'm leaving for Atlanta tomorrow.”
“Ms. Burge, I'm calling because Monica phoned you at a time when she wasn't in contact with anyone else. Did you know that she sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time, and no one knew where she was?”
“No, but it doesn't surprise me. She probably just wanted some peace. Wherever she goes, people hound her. They think she's the solution to all their problems.”
“For all intents and purposes, she sometimes just ceases to exist. I ran a check and there were no credit card or ATM usages during these times and no phone calls except for these few to you.”
“When were the calls?”
Joe looked at the scrap of paper. “Several days during the middle of May.”
The woman paused. “I'd just lost my job and I was very up
set around that time. I think she said she was on a book-signing tour.”
“She wasn't.”
“I'm sorry. I wish I could be more help.”
“I might need to talk to you after you come into town. Can you tell me where you'll be staying?”
“The Embassy Suites Buckhead.”
“Fine. Thank you for talking to me, Ms. Burge.”
Joe hung up and jotted down the hotel name.
Cal wore a self-satisfied smile.”See? Sometimes the direct approach is best. With all this Internet stuff and cross-referencing with this database and that, you can strangle yourself with too much information.”
“Don't do that again, Dad. You're not on the force anymore.”
“Aah, I could still show a lot of those guys a thing or two.”
“Yeah, you could. But instead, you decided to go buy a movie theater.”
“It was the right choice.”
“I think so too.”
Cal pointed to the phone. “Did she tell you anything?”
“Not really. She doesn't know where Monica was or what she was doing.”
“Dead end, huh?”
Joe smiled. “She may be a dead end, but Monica's cell phone isn't.”
A soft orange glow bathed Tess Wayland's nude figure as dawn broke over the city. Dylan looked at his watch. Six-ten A.M.
“Go back to sleep,” Tess whispered. She pulled on a robe and wandered over to the large windows of her hotel room.
“You can't be going to work already.”
“The show isn't going to produce itself. I slept late today. You're a bad influence.”
Dylan smiled. The night before, he'd been on his way out of the hotel, when Tess spotted him. “Looking for me?” she'd asked.
Another few seconds and he would've been gone.
There was dinner, drinks, more drinks, and this. Why was it always so much easier with women who didn't know who he really was and the things he had done?
“You should come to a taping sometime,” she said. “It might be fun.”
“Sure. Maybe Thursday?”
“Good. We'll be in a studio by then.”
“At one of the local TV stations?”
“No. A building downtown has its own studio with a satellite uplink. We're leasing it from them. I told you that the other day, didn't I?”
“Oh yeah, I think you did.” Dylan stood and gently caressed her neck. This was the moment that some of his colleagues might have chosen to eliminate her— one quick twist and a potential loose end would be cleanly removed.
The risk of keeping her alive was minimal, he decided. Plus, her death or disappearance would attract unwelcome attention. He still wasn't finished with his work here.
“Well?” Tess asked.
His hands fell to her waist.”Sure. Sounds like fun.”
Captain Henderson stared at the report that the cellular provider had just faxed to Joe.
“They got this to you already?” Henderson asked. “Didn't they need a court order?”
Joe shook his head. “The phone is issued to Monica Gaines's production company. They faxed Tess Wayland a waiver and she signed off on it.”
“Good.” Henderson held up the report.”Is this any help to you?”
“It's the nearest digital relay tower to where Monica made those phone calls. She called from the same place on two different trips.”
“And where's that?”
“Just outside Remington, South Carolina.”
“Where?”
“That was my reaction. There used to be a military supply distribution center there, but now it's pretty much dead.”
Henderson handed the report back to Joe.”So you know she's been there at least twice. You think she went there the other times she disappeared?”
“I don't know. I doubt I'll be able to find out from her. I just called the hospital, and she's unconscious. She may not live until the end of the day.”
Henderson nodded. “Howe and Carla are meeting with the crime lab guys today. How far away is this town?”
“Less than two hours'drive.”
Henderson nodded. “Why don't you head over there and see what you can find out?”
“Will do.”
Joe rolled into Remington, South Carolina, at a quarter past two. It had been a relaxing drive, but the tension returned when he saw the depressing town. An economic bomb had obviously detonated when the army supply depot withdrew.
Closed stores. Gutted buildings. Overgrown yards. The town was in the awful final stages of decay.
Joe glanced around the pothole-ridden streets. What could have brought Monica Gaines to this place?
The one area of activity revolved around a large bar called the Funky Tusk, which had faded Africa-themed murals on each exterior wall. It sat in themiddle of a large gravel parking lot that obviously had been a drive-in movie theater.
Joe parked and walked into the bar. The Africa theme was less pronounced inside, where it looked more like the generic seedy bars in south Atlanta. A half-dozen customers were scattered throughout the establishment, some playing pool, some watching a tabloid talk show on a single dim television.
Joe turned to the bartender, a thin, blond-haired boy who couldn't have been more than fifteen.
“How old are you?”Joe asked.
“Older than you think.”The kid spoke with a thick southern accent. “There's no prize if you guess my age, so you may as well order somethin'.”
“Diet Coke.”
“All we got is regular.”
“Fine.” Joe pulled out a photo of Monica Gaines and showed it to him.”Seen her in here?”
The kid studied the photo but finally shook his head. “Nah, but I usually only work during the day. Is she your wife? Did she run out on you?”
“Thanks for your concern, but no, I'm with the Atlanta PD.”Joe flashed his badge.
The kid put a soda in front of him. “Oh. Your drink's on the house, then. Sorry I can't help you.”
A jowly, gray-haired woman leaned against the bar. “Let me see her.”
Joe showed her the photograph.
The woman's face lit up. “That's the psychic lady, isn't it?”
He nodded.”Her name is Monica Gaines.”
“She's been here a few times.”
“Are you sure?”
“Play me a game of eight ball and I'll tell you about it.”
“I'm really not a pool player.”
“I could tell that about you. That's why I said eight ball. It's a beginner's game. Give the bartender your driver's license and three bucks, and I'll meet you at the far table.”
Joe did as he was told, and the bartender gave him a rack of balls. Joe walked back to the table and emptied the balls onto the table. “What's your name?” he asked.
“Deanna, after Deanna Durbin. Nobody remembers her anymore, so I'm stuck with this weird name.”
“It's a nice name. I'm Joe Bailey. When did you see Monica Gaines in here?”
“I've seen her a few times over the past couple of years. I thought it was her, but when I asked, she wouldn't admit it. She wore a cap and didn't have her glasses on. I was pretty sure I was right, but the other people here thought I was nuts.”
Joe lifted the rack and motioned for Deanna to break.”Why was she here in town? Any idea?”
“Nope. I'd go months sometimes and wouldn't see her. I don't know why anybody would be here if they had a choice.” Deanna fired the cue ball into the cluster and sunk the four.”I'm solids.”
“Did she come alone?”
“Usually.”
“But not always?”
Deanna set up her next shot. “The last couple times I saw her, she was with somebody. I think she met him here.”
“A local?”
“Nah. I never saw him before. Or since.”
“What did he look like?”
“Okay-looking guy, dark hair, slightly overweight, maybe in his mid-forties.”
�
�Do you think they were romantically involved?”
Deanna missed her shot. “No idea. It's not like I was watching them that close. The only reason I noticed is that I thought she looked a lot like the psychic. I spent nineteen bucks on her stupid hotline once and never even got to talk to her. All I got was some lame recorded message from her, then I got patched through to some dumb-ass girl who got everything wrong. It's your shot, Joe.”
He sunk the eleven ball. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“I don't know, maybe a month ago.”
“That recently?”
“Yep. You know, people usually come here to have a good time. But those two never looked like they were having any fun at all.”
Joe left town via Old Fenton Road. The cellular telephone tower that had relayed Monica's calls was located north of the city, so he decided to take a look in that direction before circling back and heading toward Atlanta. After his conversation with Deanna, he'd stopped in the town's two motels and one Waffle House, but no one else had seen Monica during her visits. Hopefully, Deanna wasn't just yanking his chain for a free game of pool.
Within five minutes, Joe found himself on a dustyrural road. Fine grains of clay blew in the wind, coating his car with dark red dust. Definitely the sticks, he thought. Except …
A tall fence in the distance. He gunned the engine.
Barbed wire and ominous warning signs. The old supply depot.
He drove alongside the fence, looking at the overgrown fields and weather-beaten corrugated tin shelters that had once covered hundreds, if not thousands, of military vehicles. The shelters went on for miles, almost like rows of tombstones stretching into the distance.
He followed the road around a thick cluster of trees until, on the other side of the bend, he caught sight of a brown two-story building with no windows. Distinctive horizontal panels jutted out from its side. It was an older building, possibly World War II vintage. He studied it. There was something odd about its shape. It almost looked like a—
He froze as the realization hit him.
It looked like a crate.
He cut the wheel hard right and circled back to the cluster of trees. This hadto be what Monica was talking about. An unlikely spot for a love nest, but if isolation was what she wanted, this certainly fit the bill. He parked in the shade of a weeping willow and climbed outside.
