Then Nicole Stryker's voice replayed itself: "You may find women's clothing, religious artifacts, and all manner of strangeness."
But Burke had seen only rows of gray or blue Armani suits with white shirts, plain ties, and black dress shoes. And although there had been a number of works on comparative religion and other subjects on the shelves near Stryker's bed, he'd not seen any religious artifacts.
The telephone rang. Burke hopped to his feet and answered.
"You want fast, brother? I'll show you fast."
"Hey, Doc. What's up?"
"This ain't real specific, understand. Just the best I can do on my equipment inside of an hour. I'll have a more detailed analysis later on today or tomorrow morning."
"That is outrageous, Doc. Thanks."
"Luke Parker over at the lab owes me a solid. I told him he sneaks this stuff through, I'll let that favor slide."
"Appreciate it."
He heard a slight whirring sound as Doc positioned the wheelchair. Burke sat down at the desk, located a pen to make a note to leave for Gina. He scribbled 'Doc says' and waited.
"We got your garden variety carpet fibers, higher grade than usual like they use in really cool hotels. The carpet has been recently cleaned, got serious traces of shampoo on the top third or so. Standard dirt and crap you would expect if it was a motel or a hotel; nothing looks too out of the ordinary at this stage, anyway. Do I dare ask where this came from?"
"A classy hotel."
"Uh oh."
"Doc, relax. It's from the other side of the doorway adjoining the suite next door."
Doc blew out some breath and chuckled. "I saw my career flashing before my eyes there for a minute. Okay, anyway, like I said there is nothing all that out of the ordinary, except for one thing."
"What's that?"
"If it's from the door adjoining the suite next door, this is a little weird. I found some traces of baby powder, probably a name brand."
Burke grunted. "Yeah, but that's likely mine. I used some on my hands."
"Ah. And I probably don't want to know why."
"That's right, you don't."
"Okay, chief. You can keep that part to yourself."
"Thanks, Doc. And like I said, I appreciate the rush."
"No sweat. I'm on this case file all day today anyway."
"Why is that?"
"Beats me, Red. The Assistant ME called. He wants this sucker bagged and tagged ASAP and I shouldn't stop for lunch."
Burke was puzzled. "They're closing it up already?"
"Like yesterday. It's a suicide, open and shut."
"That's weird." Burke shook his head. "I don't get it. Does Scotty know about this?"
Doc had already changed focus. He was typing something, practiced fingers clacking along the worn plastic. "Scotty knows. In fact, he called me and said to rush it up so he can close out his report. Later."
"Later."
Burke sat quietly, finally listening to his hunch. It grew and expanded. He turned on a desk lamp and went back through the papers again, speed-reading everything that related to the crime scene. One more look at the gruesome photographs, but this time through a magnifying glass. He searched the prints of the disemboweled body in the bathtub and then he paused, short hairs rising. His dark eyes flickered with excitement. Burke spun in his chair and turned on the desktop. He impatiently rapped his knuckles on the desk as it booted up.
Moments later, Burke sent a short e-mail to Doc's personal address with a bcc to Gina at her home: "One clue may be page 18, paragraph 2, line 2, and photo marked CS37." He speed-dialed Scott Bowden's office, but the machine answered. He considered the situation for a moment, made an independent decision and locked his office door from the inside. The blinds were still drawn.
He opened the storage closet, removed the broom and dustpan and opened a disguised wooden panel.
Several firearms hung inside, all unlicensed and untraceable. There were two SIG 9mm handguns from Switzerland, the P210 (widely regarded as one of the world's finest pistols) and the SIG P220, which was a smaller knock-off; Burke selected the P220. It was somewhat lighter at 750g and carried nine rounds in the butt clip rather than eight. He checked the clip and slid the gun into the back of his belt. He locked up the closet and then the office and left.
His meditation had lasted longer than he'd realized. It was nearing lunchtime. Burke trotted down the wooden stairs, paused at the bottom before stepping out into the crowded parking lot. He searched with his eyes and caught a cigarette butt as it sailed out of a parked Dodge sedan and splattered orange sparks onto the pavement. He shaded his eyes, squinted and saw several butts in a pile near the vehicle. Burke emerged from the dark stairwell and walked briskly toward the parked Dodge, eyes locked on the dark form of the smoker in the driver's seat. His blood was up and the pistol dug urgently into the skin of his back like a living thing.
The door opened and the driver stepped out. It was Scotty Bowden. Burke relaxed when Bowden smiled and waved. Scotty walked toward him and they met near a parked blue BMW convertible with vanity plates. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked tired and smelled like vodka and tomato juice. "What the fuck you doing up there, beating off? I tried your door and it was locked."
Burke shrugged and smiled. "I was meditating. I thought I heard somebody go by but you didn't knock."
"I've been on the job too long to knock quietly," Scotty said. "And I didn't want to scare the shit out of your neighbors by kicking the door in."
"You look like hell."
"Yeah, I was up all night."
Burke winked, gesture forced. "Women or work?"
"We keep losing homeless dudes downtown and now everybody's on my ass about it."
"Any bodies?"
"Not yet, just MP's."
"You still think it's no big thing?"
"Hell, man, homeless means they got nowhere to live. So why the hell would they stay in one place for very long? And some of them are bound to end up dead."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
Bowden yawns. "I generally am."
"And you're humble, too." Burke scanned the parking lot, looked back again. He arched an eyebrow. "So what's up, Scotty? You making house calls these days?"
Bowden scratched at his perennial five o'clock shadow. "Just wanted to check in with you, see how that case I tossed you was going. You about wrapped up?"
Something about the question was forced, weighted with subtext. Burke decided to lie. "Yeah, just about, I'd say."
"Good," Scotty said with relief. "I've got a bunch of shit on my desk to get rid of, including the Stryker thing, and if there's going to be any problems I'd need a big heads-up. You'd tell me if there was, pal, right?"
"Sure."
"Hey, the DA wants to close the sucker down soonest. He even leaned on my boss a bit, and well, I'm kind of on thin ice these days, you know? Nothing really juicy, you understand, but I've got a couple of things in my jacket and I don't need anybody upstairs pissed off at me."
"I understand."
Scotty slapped a palm on his shoulder. Burke went hollow. "I knew you would, old buddy. Knew I could count on you. So when will you be giving that Stryker bitch your report?"
"In a day or two, most likely," Burke answered. "We've got a couple of loose ends to tie up first, but I don't see anything to worry about."
"Good, good." Scotty fished in his jacket pocket, produced some breath spray and anointed his tonsils. "Well, I'd best be getting back to work, then. Uh, you plan to copy me on that report?"
Burke, innocent. "I hadn't planned on it. You want me to?"
"If you don't mind. There's no need for her to know."
"Okay, but why?"
Scotty blinked. "Just to put my mind at ease. You know how it is, you were on the job. We want to be on top of everything."
Burke felt concern for Scotty, but did not want to tip his hand. "I'll keep you in the loop. You can count on me."
"I know."
Burke watched as Bowden walked back to the unmarked Dodge. The too-small clothes, poor haircut, and growing bald spot on the back of the head suddenly made Scotty seem pathetic. Burke waved as Bowden started the car. Scotty gunned the engine like a mock drag racer and drove away without looking back. Burke opened his cell phone.
Thirty minutes later he was in Nicole Stryker's living room.
"What's so important, Mr. Burke, that it couldn't wait for me to finish my tennis lesson?" Nicole was wearing tight white shorts and a halter-top. She smelled of sweat and sunscreen. He found the combination intoxicating.
Burke flopped down on the couch and bent forward. "I'm sorry, Nicole." Then, as gently as possible: "I don't believe your father committed suicide. I think he was murdered."
He watched her face carefully. As the implications of his statement slowly dawned on her, she stumbled slightly to one side before sinking into the armchair. If she is acting, she's a damned fine performer. She swallowed and nodded.
"So someone . . ."
"Tortured him to death. Yes."
"But who, and why?"
Burke shook his head. "At this point, I haven't the slightest idea. Our work is just beginning."
Her face hardened. "I see. And how much money do you need to continue the investigation, Mr. Burke?"
She has a genius for pissing me off, Burke thought. But he said: "I'm not trying to con you out of more money here. What we have already agreed upon is fine. I'm telling you now because we may be in for some problems, that's all."
"Problems? Explain."
The bitch was back. Burke elected to tell her part of the truth. "I think your father knew something and had something. I think someone was willing to kill him for it. And as it turns out, I am not the only one who is poking around in his things." He explained about the intruder in her father's mansion, the missing papers. "Nicole, do you have any idea what might have been on those documents?"
She frowned. "My father had many hobbies, Mr. Burke, as I told you. He loved word games. He had been to medical school, he studied witchcraft and religion and even some dead languages."
"I know."
"My guess is that those missing papers could have had something to do with any one or all of those things."
Burke got to his feet. "Let's go. I want you to take me through your father's house."
"Now? But why?"
"Because I need you to tell me, if you can, whether or not those papers were the only things taken."
SIXTEEN
Nicole Stryker insisted on taking her own car, a brand new ragtop Mustang. The combined racket of wind, traffic and the rock music blaring from her stereo neatly prevented him from asking many follow-up questions. Perhaps she only wanted more time to process things. What Burke didn't know was whether or not she was hiding something.
The Stryker mansion appeared less ominous in the sunshine. Nicole popped the glove compartment and used a battery-operated opener. The metal gate slid soundlessly out of the way. She gunned the Mustang up the driveway and parked before the front steps. In daylight, the two-story house was a cream color, with a forest green trim that allowed it to blend in nicely with the foliage and trees.
Nicole got out quickly. She slammed the door without looking back. Burke, who couldn't help but follow her buttocks with his eyes, thought those tennis shorts did wonders for her personality. He slid out of the car, closed the door gently. He stood watching for a moment.
Nicole jiggled the key in the lock. She was facing the door, head down and hair obscuring her face, when she spoke. "Are you finished looking at my ass?"
Burke cleared his throat and moved around the front of the ragtop. "Sure. For the time being, anyway."
"Good."
She opened the door and walked briskly through the wide room, going directly for the stairs. Burke kept his eyes focused on her shoulders and that bouncing blond hair. He was surprised to find himself blushing. Nicole raced up the staircase. He noted an odd tension in her shoulders; she became marionette-stiff as she reached the upper floor and also slowed down. Perhaps her memories of her father had begun to intrude? If not, she clearly had something else of import on her mind. He followed.
Nicole turned into what Burke had taken, the night before, to be a bathroom. She opened the door, which was set a few feet into a darkened alcove, and turned the lights on. Burke closed the distance, expecting her to move further into the room, which was actually a guest bedroom of considerable size. Nicole stopped abruptly, unaccountably, and Burke found himself pressed up against her shapely cheeks. She stiffened and so did he. The sensation in his groin was as sharp and precise as the explosion of static electricity from a doorknob.
"Excuse me."
She waited to move. It was a sliver of time that smoothly signaled her positive response to his interest. Then, without turning around, Nicole Stryker walked to a long closet and yanked it open.
"Shit."
Burke followed her eyes. The closet was long and deep, larger than the one in the master bedroom. There were wigs along a top shelf and some dresses, blouses, and women's business suits hanging from the center rod. A few pairs of shoes littered the floor.
"What?"
Nicole turned to face him, pretty features pinched and white. "There are a bunch of things missing, Mr. Burke."
"What kind of things?"
"A few of the women's clothes and most of the purses. Someone has definitely been here."
Burke moved closer. "We could have it dusted for fingerprints, but the guy I saw wore gloves. I don't think he'd be that stupid."
"And look down there." Nicole pointed to a long wooden shelf set low to the carpet. "He had some icons and artifacts there, and some incense for when he meditated."
Burke's interest was piqued. "He meditated? You didn't mention that."
"Some kind of crazy Hindu shit," she replied. "Now watch."
She slid the shelf to one side, and a panel in the wall opened. It was large enough to step through. The room beyond lit up automatically as Nicole entered, motioned to Burke. There were more shelves here, and also antique statues, carvings, and religious icons of figures he easily recognized: Buddha, Bodhi Dharma, some solid gold Yin-Yang pieces, Kwan Yin, Ganesh, even Shiva dancing before the wheel of suffering. Burke whistled. He carefully examined up one image of Siddhartha, deep in meditation beneath the Bodhi tree. It appeared close to a thousand years old.
"Do you have any idea what this is worth, Nicole?"
She shrugged. "A lot."
"More than a lot. You didn't tell me about this."
"My father had an extensive collection of very expensive antiques. He paid cash for the majority of them. I told you that there would be religious artifacts, but frankly I was not in a hurry to let anyone else know how extensive of a collection it was. I'm sure you can understand why."
"Because some of them were stolen."
Nicole faced the wall. "Let's just say that I don't know precisely how he acquired them, but he paid a lot and he always paid in cash."
Burke followed her gaze. "And some of those rare pieces are missing now?"
"That's right."
Burke replaced the Siddhartha and released a deep breath. "Do you have any idea which ones?"
Her shoulders were sagging. She was sinking fast. "Does it matter?"
"Let me put it this way, Nicole." He spoke gently, soothingly. "There are probably hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of pieces here. If the motive was purely financial, then why not take them all? If you can remember what's missing, you may put me on the trail of whoever killed your father."
"China. No, maybe India."
"Excuse me?"
"Some of the pieces that are gone were from India. I don't remember which ones, but I know he said most of the ones on those shelves were from some obscure sect in, I think Hindu."
"No idea of the name of the sect or the deity?"
"Not a clue."
"Could you sketch me what they looked like?"
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Nicole grew irritable. "I wasn't paying that much attention, Burke, okay? This isn't my thing. It was his."
"What I don't understand," Burke mused, ignoring her anger, "is the missing women's clothing. Why take only some of that? Why any of it, why not everything he had? What were they looking for?"
"I want to go now."
She was hugging herself. Her voice sounded thick and Burke could see rows of goose bumps growing on her bare arms. He held her shoulders. "I'm sorry. Sure, let's get out of here." She sobbed at the touch, a sound fraught with vulnerability, dark from remaindered grief. Nicole Stryker whirled around and glued herself to Burke's chest.
When they left, his shirt was smeared by mascara, damp with tears.
SEVENTEEN
"There is something most seriously fucked up going on here, my brother."
Doc was sitting in his specially modified van, tugging on an unfiltered cigarette. The tip glowed orange in the gathering gloom. Tiny sparks soared through the smoke when he exhaled. "The Assistant ME reamed me a new asshole for copying those files."
Burke scuffed his running shoe along a crack in the asphalt. "I haven't shown that stuff to a soul except Gina, Doc."
"You sure?"
"Definitely. How do you think he found out?"
"Maybe he's got a mole in my office or it's bugged up or something. But I don't think so. That leaves one possibility."
"Your computer?"
"Somebody must have hacked into the main frame and downloaded whatever I had accessed and printed out. Now I ask you, white boy, why the fuck would they care about that?"
"Scotty called me. He said he's getting heat to close the case file. I got the feeling he'd rather I drop the ball on this one."
Doc rolled his eyes, snapped the smoke out onto the pavement. "What's up with the brother, man? This sucks swamp water. Damn, I'd best not lose my job over some dead horror writer."
The Pressure of Darkness Page 11
