Hello, Darkness

by Sandra Brown

  “I’m afraid not. I’ll talk to you later, Gavin.”

  The detective clicked off before Gavin could even say good-bye. He got up and went to the bathroom, then looked through a window on the front of the house and saw that the police car was still parked at the curb.

  Was he the only one who appreciated the irony of their protecting him from Valentino, while at the same time suspecting him of being Valentino?

  It was too early to get up, so he went back to bed, but discovered he couldn’t sleep. Until Janey was found, he was going to be quarantined at home. He might just as well resign himself to that. It could be worse, though. If not for his dad, they probably would have put him in jail.

  Considering that his dad had caught him in several lies and discovered his membership in the Sex Club, he wasn’t suffering overly much. Last night, with his dad and Paris, it hadn’t been half bad.

  He’d almost dreaded seeing her after so many years. What if she’d changed and now acted like an old person? He was afraid she’d have big, stiff hair and too much jewelry, that she’d be gushy and sappy, going on and on about how much he’d grown, make a big to-do over him like his mother’s relatives always did at family get-togethers.

  But Paris had been cool, just like he remembered her. She was friendly, but didn’t overdo it like Liz did. She didn’t talk down to him either. Even when he had known her before, she had talked to him like an equal, not like a kid.

  Jack had always addressed him as Skipper, or Scout, or Partner, something cute, and had talked to him boisterously, like he was a baby who had to be entertained. Jack had been okay, but of the two, he had liked Paris better.

  He had liked Paris better than the girls his dad had dated then, too. He remembered thinking that if Jack wasn’t in the picture, how cool it would be if his dad liked Paris as a girlfriend.

  His mom had thought that maybe he did.

  She’d never talked to him about it, of course, but he had overheard her say once to a friend that she thought Dean had a “thing” for Paris Gibson, and that he only dated other women because she belonged to Jack Donner.

  At the time, he’d been too young to understand the implications. Nor had he been particularly interested in the relationships between grown-ups. But after having seen how anxious his dad had been to get to her house last evening, how he’d checked himself out in the rearview mirror before they left the car, he thought his mom might have been right. He’d never seen his dad consult a mirror before meeting Liz.

  For as long as he could remember, his parents had been divorced. As a kid, he had gradually begun to comprehend that his family wasn’t like the ones in TV commercials where the mommy and daddy ate breakfast together, and walked on the beach holding hands, and rode in the same car, and even slept in the same bed. He noticed that in other houses on his block, the daddy was there all the time.

  He asked questions of both parents, and after they had explained the meaning of divorce, he had fervently hoped that his parents would get back together and live in the same house. But the older he got, the better he came to understand and accept that a reconciliation was an extremely dim possibility. Dumb kid that he was, he had continued to hope.

  His dad had dated lots of women. Gavin forgot most of their names because none had lasted very long. He’d heard his mom talking to his grandmother about the “flavor of the month” and knew that she was referring to his dad’s girlfriends.

  His mom hadn’t dated nearly as much, so it was surprising that she was the one to remarry. Her remarriage had dashed all hope that his parents would, somehow, miraculously reunite. That’s when he’d gotten really mad at her and had determined to make her life with her new husband miserable.

  Looking back, it had been a stupid, childish way to behave. He’d been a real jerk. His mom must have loved the guy or she wouldn’t have married him. She didn’t love his dad anymore. Gavin had heard her tell his grandmother that, too. “I’ll always love Dean for giving me Gavin,” she had said, “but we made the right decision early on to split up.”

  He figured his dad didn’t love his mom either, and maybe never had. He tried to picture his parents as a couple, and it just didn’t look right. Like two pieces from different puzzles, they didn’t fit. It hadn’t worked originally and it never would.

  Live with it, Gavin, he thought.

  His mom was happy now in her second marriage. His dad deserved to be happy, too. But Gavin didn’t think Liz was the one who was going to make him happy.

  He drifted off, thinking about it, but before he was completely asleep, the doorbell rang.

  Jesus! Why was everybody up so frigging early this morning?

  He made his way to the front door and unlocked it. To his regret, he didn’t check to see who had rung the bell before he opened the door. John Rondeau was standing on the porch.

  Gavin’s eyes darted past him to the squad car at the curb. He was comforted to see that it was still there. The cops inside were noshing on doughnuts. No doubt a gift from Rondeau.

  “Don’t worry, Gavin, your protectors are in place.”

  Rondeau’s pleasant tone of voice didn’t fool him. Not for a second. His cheekbone had finally stopped throbbing, but it was still sore and would remain discolored for days. Rondeau outweighed him by probably thirty pounds. He knew firsthand that the son of a bitch was capable of violence. But he’d be damned if he’d cower.

  “I’m not worried about anything,” he retorted. “Especially you. What do you want?”

  “I wanted to add something to what I told you yesterday.”

  “If my dad finds out you’re here, he’ll whip your ass.”

  “That’s why this is such a good time, because I know he’s not at home.” He was smiling, so to anyone looking, including the cops licking sugar glaze off their fingers, this would appear to be a chat between friends. “If you decide to tell anybody about my—”

  “Crimes.”

  His smile only widened. “I was going to say extracurricular activities. If anybody hears about that from you, it won’t be you I come after.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  Ignoring that, Rondeau said, “I’ll skip you and go straight for your old man.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke? Because it’s freaking funny.” Gavin snorted derisively. “You’re a computer geek.”

  “I’m working my way out of that unit and into the CIB.”

  “I don’t care if they make you chief, you haven’t got the balls to have a face-off with my dad.”

  “I wasn’t talking about attacking him myself. That would be stupid because he would be watching for that. But what about some psycho jailbird he has to interview?

  “Malloy goes into jail cells all the time, you know,” he continued smoothly. “Talking to junkies and rapists and homicidal maniacs, trying to get information from them, manipulating them into confessing. What if one of them was tipped off that Dr. Malloy was coming on to his woman, making moves on her while he’s in jail?”

  “You’re getting even funnier.”

  “Like the way he moved in on his best friend Jack Donner with Paris Gibson.”

  Gavin’s next smart-alecky retort died on his lips. “Says who?”

  “Curtis, for one. Says anyone with a grain of sense who can add two and two together. Your dad fucked his best friend’s fiancée, which caused Jack Donner to try and commit suicide.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “If you don’t believe me, ask him.” Rondeau clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “It’s an ugly story, isn’t it? But it fuels any rumor I might start among the jail population that Dr. Malloy, despite all his buddy-buddy tactics, is not to be trusted, especially with a lonely and susceptible female.

  “You get my drift, Gavin? Cops get set up to die by other cops all the time. We’re human, you know. We make enemies among ourselves. It happens,” he said, shrugging. “He wouldn’t see it coming, but he’d be just as dead and you’d be ju
st as orphaned.”

  Fear struck Gavin’s heart. “You get out of here,” he said thickly.

  In no apparent hurry, Rondeau pushed himself away from the doorjamb. “Okay, I’ll leave you now. But I strongly urge you to think about what I said. You’re nothing. You’re dog shit on my shoe, not worth my time and effort. But if you rat me out,” he said, poking Gavin’s bare chest hard with the knuckle of his index finger, “Malloy goes down.”

  • • •

  Paris’s eyes came open slowly, but when she saw Dean sitting on the edge of her bed, she sat bolt upright. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing new. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She was relieved to know that there was no bad news, but her heart was still pumping hard from her initial fright and now from having Dean sitting on her bed. Not having quite regained her breath, she asked, “How was the sofa?”

  “Short.”

  “Did you sleep at all?”

  “Some. Not much. Mostly I worked, made some notes on Valentino’s profile.”

  As tired as she’d been, it had taken her a long time to fall asleep, knowing that he was in the next room. It had hovered in her subconscious and had prevented her from getting a restful sleep. “I feel like coffee.”

  He nodded, but he didn’t move and neither did she. The silence stretched out as they continued to gaze at each other across the narrow strip of bed separating them.

  “Should have locked my bedroom door after all?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “Definitely. Because, as it turns out, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  He reached for her and she stretched toward him, but just before their lips met, she said, “Liz—”

  “Not a factor.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me, Paris.”

  She did, giving herself over to his kiss—his un-tempered, possessive, delicious kiss. Placing her hands on his stubble-covered cheeks, she tilted her head to change the angle of their lips and invited more intimacy. He pushed aside the blanket and sheet covering her and pressed her onto the pillows, following her down, lying close beside her.

  He drew back in order to look at her, taking in her unglamorous tank top and boxers. “Fancy sleepwear.”

  “Designed to inflame.”

  “It’s working,” he growled.

  She explored his face with her fingertips, smoothing his eyebrows, stroking the straight line of his nose, then tracing the shape of his lips and touching the shallow cleft at the bottom of his chin.

  “Your hair is grayer,” she remarked.

  “You’re wearing yours shorter.”

  “I guess we’ve both changed.”

  “Some things have.” His eyes moved to her breasts and when he caressed her through the tank top, her nipple tightened. “Not that. That I remember.”

  He kissed her again, except with more urgency than before. Splaying his hand over her bottom, he lifted her onto the erection that strained against his trousers.

  A rush of fluid heat spread through her lower body and into her thighs. It had been years since she had experienced that aching desire to be filled. She sighed with joy over feeling it again, and moaned with longing to have that desire assuaged.

  “We’ve waited long enough,” he said, rolling back only far enough to reach for his fly. “Too damn long.”

  But they would wait longer. Her telephone rang.

  Both froze. They locked gazes, and each knew without having to say anything that she must answer the call. Too many things were at stake. Dean flopped onto his back and blistered the ceiling paint with his curses.

  Paris pushed her tangled hair from her eyes and reached for the cordless phone on her nightstand. “Hello?” She mouthed to Dean that it was Curtis. “No . . . no, I was awake. Is there news?”

  “Of a sort,” the detective said brusquely. “None about Valentino or Janey directly. Brad Armstrong and Marvin Patterson are still at large. But actually I’m calling for Malloy. I understand he’s there.”

  With more composure than she felt, she said, “Just a moment. I’ll get him.”

  She covered the mouthpiece as she extended the telephone toward Dean. He looked at her inquisitively, but she raised her shoulders, saying, “He didn’t say.”

  He took the telephone from her and said a curt good morning to the detective. Paris got up and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She showered quickly and put on a robe before going back into the bedroom. Dean was no longer there and the telephone had been returned to the battery charger.

  She followed sounds into the kitchen. Dean was scooping coffee grounds into the paper filter. Hearing her behind him, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “You smell good.”

  “What did Sergeant Curtis want?”

  “Coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Dean?”

  “Gavin told him I was here. He had called my house because he couldn’t reach me on my cell. When I went to see Liz this morning—”

  “You went to see Liz this morning?”

  “At dawn. I turned off my cell and forgot to turn it back on. As a courtesy to her, I didn’t want a phone call to interrupt what I had to tell her.”

  Paris said nothing but felt the pressure of a dozen questions wanting to be asked. He calmly removed two coffee mugs from her pantry and only then turned to face her. “Which was that I wouldn’t be seeing her again.”

  She swallowed hard. “Was she upset?”

  “Mildly. But not shocked. She’d seen it coming.”

  “Oh.”

  He must have read her mind, because he said quietly, “Don’t blame yourself for the breakup, Paris. It would have happened anyway.”

  “Are you . . . okay with it?”

  “Relieved. I was unfair to her by letting it go on for so long.”

  The coffeemaker gurgled, signaling that the coffee was almost ready and giving her a graceful way to change the subject. She went to the fridge for a carton of half-and-half. “What did Curtis want?”

  “Only to give me a status report.”

  “On the case?”

  “No, on my employment with the APD. I’ve been placed on indefinite suspension.”

  chapter 27

  “Hi, Mama, it’s Lancy.”

  “Christ, what time is it?”

  “Nearly nine.”

  “Where’re you at?”

  Last evening he had returned to the mobile-home park through a back gate and had parked two rows away from the lane on which his mother’s home was situated. Risking barking dogs and skittish neighbors who would welcome a chance to shoot first and ask questions later, he’d sneaked between the narrow lots.

  His reconnoitering seemed a bit melodramatic, but it was a precaution that proved to be warranted. He spotted the unmarked police car immediately. It was parked about thirty yards from his mother’s patch of lawn. Anyone inside the no-frills sedan had an unrestricted view of her front door. It was a good thing he had gone to her trailer and dipped into his piggy bank when he had.

  He had slinked back to his car and returned to Austin because he didn’t know where else to go. He had called a neighbor, who was as trustworthy as anyone among Lancy’s few acquaintances. He confirmed what Lancy suspected—the police had tossed his place. “I saw them carrying out boxes of stuff,” the neighbor reported.

  The tapes of Paris Gibson’s shows would be in those boxes. Shit!

  Now, disregarding his mother’s question, he asked, “Have any cops come around?”

  “Guy named Curtis. From Austin.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothin’,” she grumbled, “’cause I don’t know nothin’.”

  “Did he search the trailer?”

  “He poked around. Found your socks.”

  “Did he take them with him?”

  “What would he want your dirty socks for?”

  “Go to the window and look out toward the south end of the stre
et.”

  “I’m in bed,” she whined.

  “Please, Mama. Do me this favor. See if there’s a dark-colored car parked down the street.”

  She griped and cursed, but the telephone clattered when she obviously dropped it on her bedside table. She was gone an inordinate amount of time. When she finally returned, she was wheezing like a bagpipe. “It’s there.”

  “Thanks, Mama. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I don’t want none of your trouble rubbing off on me, Lancy Ray. You understand me, boy?”

  He replaced the greasy receiver on the hook of the pay telephone. Thrusting his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders, he walked down the breezeway of the residence motel. Beneath the bill of his baseball cap, his eyes furtively watched for squad cars that he expected to appear at any moment with a squeal of brakes and shouts for him to freeze.

  After learning that he couldn’t hide in his mother’s place, he had returned to his secret apartment to spend the night. He’d driven past it once. There’d been no police car at the IHOP across the street or anywhere else that he could see.

  He got in without being detected, but it was hardly a comfortable refuge. It stank. It was dirty. It made him feel dirty.

  He’d been up all night, and it had been a long one.

  “You’re screwed, blued, and tattooed this time, Lancy Ray,” he muttered to himself as he unlocked the door and once again slipped back into the dank, dark lair of a wanted man.

  • • •

  Curtis’s shiny cowboy boots were propped up on his desk, his ankles crossed. He was concentrating on the hand-tooled pointed toe of one of them when a yellow legal tablet landed on the desk an inch away from it. He turned to find Paris Gibson standing behind him. Even though she was wearing her sunglasses, he could tell by her body language that she was in a major snit.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “You’re going to kowtow to that egomaniacal fool?”

  He removed his feet from his desk and motioned her into a chair. She declined the offer and remained standing. He said, “That fool is a powerful county judge.”