"Who's this?" Hannah demanded.
"Have you forgotten me?"
"Elizabeth Ireland."
"You remembered. I'm touched. Thanks for the charming letter from your solicitor by the way."
"I warned you to stay away from me."
"Correction: you warned me to stop harassing you. Since when does a friendly phone call constitute harassment?"
"I'm hanging up."
"Not until you tell me who did those paintings."
"The artist wishes to remain anonymous, as I already informed you."
"It was Lucas Doyle, wasn't it?"
Silence.
"Lucas Doyle took the photos," Elizabeth repeated.
"You're out of your mind. I'm hanging up right now."
"Why? So you can warn him that his secret identity isn't such a secret anymore?"
No answer. She'd already hung up.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elizabeth woke from a fitful sleep shortly before dawn. All night, her thoughts had raced with the possibility that Lucas Doyle was involved in his sister's death. He was certainly holding out on everyone, changing his story, telling Frank that he wanted his sister's body released as soon as possible, and telling Elizabeth that he wanted her death investigated as murder. He hadn't even mentioned Max, and he'd stonewalled the detectives when they tried to find out more about Natalie. Then there was his appearance outside the hospital shortly after the latest victim of the Shooter was brought in. What had he been doing there?
Elizabeth had no evidence that the newspaper clippings he had shown her on the Shooter case had actually belonged to Natalie. Maybe the file was a catalogue of his own strange obsession. The photos sent to Hannah and Max were similar to the taunting letters that Finn Spillane had been sent for years. Spillane had always assumed that Natalie was behind them, but Natalie wasn't behind the hate mail now. She couldn't have broken into Elizabeth's apartment. Maybe it had been Lucas all along. He had befriended Kyle Whelan; Dr. Brennan said that he read all the right books on psychology. Who better to play such devious mind games?
Was it possible that Lucas Doyle was the Shooter? It made a crazy sort of sense. If Lucas was the Shooter, it would explain why Natalie had been so obsessed and why she'd been willing to cover up for him, until that final night when maybe she'd decided to bring the game to an end by confessing to Elizabeth what she knew.
Lucas had never given a satisfactory explanation as to his whereabouts on the night his sister died. The police had no reason to check out his story; Natalie wasn't murdered, according to the autopsy report, she'd killed herself. No one needed to prove where they were on the night she died. However, there was something not quite right about Lucas.
Within an hour, she was knocking on Lucas' door. She had no idea what she going to say to him, especially after what she'd said to Hannah about the pictures in the gallery. It wasn't as if she had any evidence against him. Even if he was the artist, who could say what the paintings really signified? The fact was that Elizabeth didn't know much about him.
She felt her doubts increase as the door remained unanswered. The last time they'd spoken he'd said he was going back to the house. Dr. Brennan was the only person she could think of who might be able to help. She called him, half expecting him not to be available, but he answered on the second ring and agreed to meet for tea.
He arrived late at the coffee shop, full of apologies and elaborate explanations.
"There's no need to explain," said Elizabeth, waving a hand in the air. "I understand it's short notice."
"You sounded troubled on the phone," he said, taking a seat in front of her.
"Please don't start psychoanalysing me. I'm really not in the mood."
"Just an observation. Am I right?"
"It's about Lucas."
"In that case, I'll need a strong coffee."
"Have you seen him recently?" she asked when they'd had their caffeine fix.
"Not recently, no. Why do you ask?"
"I've been trying to contact him since the funeral. I need to clear up a few things, but he's not answering my calls, and he's not at home."
"Strange. He called me the day before yesterday to cancel our appointment."
"Did he reschedule?"
"He didn't, which is unusual; he's always rescheduled whenever he had to cancel before. This time he said he'd let me know."
"What are you thinking?"
"I wonder if he's decided to end his sessions with me."
"Would that bother you?"
"Now you're trying to psychoanalyse me." He smiled.
"How did Lucas sound when you spoke to him?"
"My secretary spoke to him."
"Did she tell you what he said?"
"She just said that Lucas had cancelled this week's appointments."
"I hope he's okay."
"I can make some calls if you'd like," Brennan offered. He rang some of Lucas's acquaintances while Elizabeth ordered more coffee and eavesdropped, wondering how he knew whom to call. Several calls later, and it was obvious that no one had heard from Lucas in days.
"Maybe we should call the police," Elizabeth suggested.
"And say what? Lucas is a grown man. He doesn't have to answer to anyone."
"But if this is out of character..."
"He often leaves on the spur of the moment. He could be anywhere."
"Something doesn't feel right. Maybe he's fallen downstairs or hurt himself." She didn't want to admit that what she really feared was that Lucas had more to hide than he was letting on.
"I have a key to his house," said Brennan.
She looked at him in surprise. "Why?" The question was out before she could stop it.
"Lucas gave me a spare key last year. When he and Natalie were in France he asked me to keep an eye on the place. I never got around to returning it."
"Let's go." She jumped to her feet.
"We can't let ourselves in uninvited. What if he's there? Maybe he doesn't want to answer the door. We can't walk into someone else's house like that."
"He'll understand," she insisted. "He'll realise we were concerned about him. We'll feel worse if we don't call around and something has happened."
"You're right," he said reluctantly.
There were no signs of life when they arrived at the house. They knocked on the door and called through the letterbox. Elizabeth peered through the windows. They could have stood there all day and no one would have opened the door.
"Here, you do it." Brennan handed her the key.
She inserted the key in the lock and pushed open the door. A small pile of letters had settled on the floor in the hall. It was dark and quiet. "Lucas?" His name echoed faintly, and then silence descended again. "Lucas? It's me, Elizabeth Ireland. Dr. Brennan is here too. Are you home?"
They quickly searched the ground floor rooms before climbing the stairs to the livingroom, which was also empty.
"What's upstairs?" Elizabeth asked.
"Two bedrooms."
They climbed the stairs. There was something eerie and unsettling about the empty house. Elizabeth felt they were being watched.
At the top of the stairs was a narrow landing with two doors either side. They glanced at each other, feeling like intruders, afraid of being caught, but hoping that someone would appear so that the sense of dread would lift. Elizabeth turned the handle of the door on the left and entered a large, double bedroom.
"He's gone," said Brennan. He was looking around, bewildered, as if he'd forgotten why they were there. "Let's get out of here."
"Let's look in here." She crossed the landing and opened the door into the bathroom. White tiles lined the walls and floor. Standing centre-stage in the middle of the large room was a porcelain bath filled almost to the brim with water. Lying naked on the bottom of the bath, eyes wide open, was Lucas Doyle.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elizabeth stood by the window in the Doyles' living room watching the investigators come and go
. Brennan sat on the couch. She glanced at him, cruelly thinking that to lose one patient was unfortunate, but to lose two was beginning to look careless. She wondered if Hannah Moynihan had phoned Lucas and told him what she'd said about the paintings. Maybe the fear of discovery had been enough to make him kill himself, if he had killed himself.
Frank was upstairs with the new city pathologist, Dr. Kingsley Elmes. Elizabeth hurried outside after Elmes when he finally came downstairs alone.
"Elmes?" she called after him.
He looked over his shoulder and frowned. "Elizabeth is it?" he asked stiffly. He knew her name, but he didn't like her. He'd barely acknowledged her presence on the few occasions when they'd met; partly because of her relationship with the Chief Superintendent, mostly because she'd been close to the previous pathologist, Charles Kennedy.
"Well?" she asked.
"Well?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows.
"How did he die?"
"I can't discuss those details with you."
"Why not?"
"You're not authorised to have that information, as you well know."
"Come on, Elmes. Don't be such an ass. I'm not asking you to betray your bloody country. I knew Lucas. I found his body. I only want to know how he died."
"Like I said, I can't disclose that information."
"What's your problem, anyway?" she demanded.
"I have no intention of discussing this any further. Excuse me." He turned to leave. Elizabeth reached out to catch his arm when Frank called her name like a warning. Elmes turned around at the sound of his voice and glared at her outstretched hand.
"I'll speak with you later, Chief Superintendent," Elmes said, his footsteps rattling military-style on the cobblestones as he retreated.
"Frank, I can explain."
"What exactly are you playing at, Elizabeth?" asked Frank. "Elmes isn't like the rest of us. He's all about the rules and regulations. He doesn't know you, so he hasn't had time to get used to your ways. He won't stand for any nonsense. If he makes a complaint about you, I won't be impressed."
"I only wanted to know how Lucas died."
"There are other ways of finding out other than accosting Elmes at a potential crime scene and demanding that he give you the answers. There's a time and place for everything, Elizabeth; here and now is neither the time nor the place."
"I'm sick of tiptoeing around all these precious little male egos, each trying to protect their corner. Maybe Elmes will complain, so what, let him."
"It's not as simple as that, Elizabeth. I can handle Elmes. I'm worried about you. I care too much about you to have you constantly putting yourself in harm's way."
"Do you think Elmes will make a formal complaint?" she asked, relenting.
"Not officially. We have to work together every day. He's too professional to allow your improper question to get in the way." He rubbed his tired eyes. "Tell me, what were you and Brennan doing here anyway?"
"I couldn't contact Lucas. Brennan had a key, so we decided to check in on him."
"You sure have a habit of turning up in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Tell me about it." She sighed. "So how did Lucas die?"
"Elmes thinks it's suicide."
"Another one. I'm getting tired of it. Brennan says Lucas wasn't the suicidal type."
"Maybe Brennan can explain why there are no signs of a struggle on the body. It looks as if Lucas took as many pills as he could find before getting into the bath. According to Elmes, he died fairly peacefully."
"Did Elmes say how long he's been dead?"
"About twelve hours."
"Crap."
"What's the problem?"
"I called Hannah and accused Lucas of being the anonymous artist behind the sadomasochistic paintings at the gallery. She may have called him and told him. Maybe he feared exposure."
"You called Hannah Moynihan?" Frank asked. "Calvin Cusack's letter warned you not to contact her. The media will really love it if he slaps a restraining order on you."
"What can I do?"
"Don't do anything. I'll speak to Hannah," he said. "I'll tell her about Lucas and find out if she mentioned anything to him about what you said."
"Chief?" Foley called from the door. He beckoned Frank over. They spoke for a moment, their heads close together, while Elizabeth pretended not to listen.
"I'll see you later, Elizabeth," Frank said, before heading off.
"What was that all about?" she asked, turning to Foley.
"Something came up," he shrugged.
"No shit, Sherlock. What is it now?"
He looked uncomfortable. "I'd rather not say."
"I promise not to tell," she said.
Foley glanced around, checking that no one could overhear. "Don't say this came from me, right?"
"Okay, my lips are sealed."
He lowered his voice. "Barry Egan's dead."
"Is he the guy who was brought to the hospital last night? I thought he was going to be okay."
"He discharged himself this morning. He was shot in the head, right outside his house."
Elizabeth groaned in frustration. "We should have known this would happen. Of course the Shooter wanted to finish the job, but how did he manage to get so close? Surely the media was swarming his neighbourhood."
"They hadn't found out where he lived yet."
"How did the Shooter know where to find him?"
"Inside information?" Foley suggested. "Witnesses said a bike pulled up, the rider got off, and shot him in the forehead."
"Have you tracked it down?"
"It was stolen this morning from outside a house on the south side of the city. The owner had left the keys in the ignition."
"Do you suspect the owner?" she asked.
"No, he'd already reported it stolen. An officer was taking his statement at the time of the shooting."
"This keeps getting worse," she sighed.
"There was some good news."
"Oh?"
"He dropped the gun."
"Are you joking?"
"Nope. Apparently, he misjudged a corner and nearly went flying off the bike. The gun fell out of his pocket. Ballistics has it now. They're almost certain it's the same gun that's been used in the previous shootings."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Elizabeth awoke with a start. Someone was in the apartment. She could hear breathing.
Listen.
Listen.
Someone was moving about in the dark on the other side of the bedroom door. She slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the carpet, placed her ear against the door, and listened. She held her breath but couldn't hear anything.
Then she turned the handle and edged it slowly open, before slipping through the gap like a shadow and sneaking towards the livingroom, where everything was silent. The moon cast unearthly shapes on the walls and floor, but it was empty. She must have imagined hearing someone, imagined that the burglar had returned. Then she saw a furtive movement and the outline of a tall figure silhouetted against the light from the moon.
"Don't move," she said. "I have a gun."
"In that case, you're under arrest," said a familiar voice.
"Frank? What the hell are you doing here? You frightened the life out of me!" Relief flooded through her.
She switched on the light and blinked against the brightness. There he was, leaning against the wall near the balcony, wearing his coat, arms folded.
"Do you have anything to eat?" he asked. "I'm starving."
"What time is it?" she asked, bewildered.
"About three and way past dinnertime. What do you have?"
"Not a lot." She peered into the fridge.
"As usual."
"There's potato salad."
"That'll have to do."
She perched on the arm of the chair beside him while he ate. "I was dreaming," she said.
"That's what happens when you sleep."
"Actually, it was more like a nightmare. I drea
mt that the city was flooded. I was swimming."
"But you can't swim."
"You're in a weird mood," she said, getting up.
"I'm exhausted," he said. "Nothing that twelve hours in bed and a new job wouldn't fix. I've just spent the evening with Williams, trying to work out the connection between the victims."
"Did you figure it out?"
"Not really. Williams has been a busy little bee trying to work out the connections between the victims: their names, star signs, what the weather was like when they were killed."
"I never realised that the weather influenced psychos."
Frank finished the last of the salad. "We could have done with your input today. Did you get my messages?"
"I got them, but I wasn't in the mood to talk. Sorry. I can't get that final image of Lucas out of my head."
"It's like Natalie all over again," said Frank, sympathetically.
"It's nothing like that. It never felt right that she killed herself, despite her depression and nervous breakdown. Lucas had none of the predictive traits, but I believe that he took his own life. Don't say it; I know I shouldn't get emotionally involved."
"Sometimes, it's easier said than done."
Chapter Twenty-Five
"You should be more careful," said Elizabeth. "The last person I arranged to meet wound up dead."
"Are you trying to be funny?" asked Hannah.
"Am I laughing?"
They were standing by the fountain at Fitzgerald's Park where they'd arranged to meet when Hannah had called Elizabeth out of the blue. Hannah was wrapped in her fur coat and looking her usual conspicuous self.
"I suppose you're wondering why I called," said Hannah.
"It's better than hiding behind solicitors, much more civilised."
"I wasn't hiding behind Calvin Cusack." Her expression was pained. "It was a difficult time, and I didn't want you bothering me."
"I wasn't bothering you. I just wanted to talk to you about Natalie."
"I saw it differently."
"Your solicitor's letter made that clear."
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