Hello, Darkness

by Sandra Brown

  “She’s no longer missing.” When Paris told her that Janey Kemp’s body had been discovered, Toni Armstrong finally lost her valiant battle against tears.

  chapter 29

  Anytime John Rondeau crossed paths with Dean Malloy, he went out of his way to be nothing but pleasant. But Malloy treated him with patent animosity. Curtis had noticed. Rondeau had overheard him asking Malloy what the problem was. Malloy had replied with a gruff, “Nothing,” and Curtis hadn’t pressed him.

  As far as Rondeau was concerned, Malloy could glower at him until hell froze over. It was Curtis he wanted to butter up, not Malloy. The psychologist had the higher ranking, but it was Curtis who could recommend Rondeau for CIB.

  As for Malloy’s kid, he had him right where he wanted him, which was scared out of his skivvies. The results of the lie detector test had been in his favor and had basically cleared him of suspicion. So, one might wonder, why was he still so fidgety?

  He was sitting in a chair near Curtis’s desk, his shoulders hunched in a self-defensive posture. A bundle of nerves, he couldn’t sit still. His eyes darted about fearfully. He looked like he would disintegrate if somebody said “Boo!”

  Only Rondeau knew why the boy still looked so scared, and he wasn’t telling. Neither was Gavin. Rondeau was confident of the kid’s silence. He had frightened him sufficiently that he wasn’t about to tattle on him. Brilliant to think of threatening his dad, not him. That had done the trick.

  It was crowded inside Curtis’s cubicle, where they’d all gathered for a brainstorming session. Curtis was there, of course. Malloy. Gavin. And Paris Gibson.

  Rondeau welcomed any opportunity to share space with her, though it was hard for her to notice him with Malloy stamping around repeating ad nauseam that he feared she would be next on Valentino’s to-do list.

  Rondeau had stumbled on to this meeting when he came to report to Curtis what he’d found on the CD Mrs. Armstrong had hand-delivered to Paris. It wasn’t all that earthshaking, but he grabbed any opportunity to impress Curtis and bump up his chances of getting into the CIB.

  Paris—innocently, of course—had stolen his thunder before his arrival. What Toni Armstrong had withheld from him while he was searching her house, she had imparted to Paris—her husband had fondled Paris when she’d been his patient.

  Had Mrs. Armstrong shared this with him and he’d been the one to bring it to Curtis’s attention, it would have been a real feather in his cap. As it was, he’d have to earn that feather by some other means.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this guy,” Sergeant Curtis was saying of the dentist. “Has he contacted his wife today?” he asked Paris.

  “She says no. All her attempts to reach him have been unsuccessful.”

  “If he called her from his cell, we could place him using satellite,” Malloy remarked.

  “I’m sure that’s why he hasn’t done it,” said Rondeau, hoping he’d made Malloy sound like a fool. His neck was still sore from Malloy’s squeeze yesterday. He and Malloy were never going to be friends, but he didn’t consider that any great loss.

  “Have you checked out his phone records?” Malloy asked.

  “Working on it,” Curtis replied. “It’ll look really bad for him if he’s made repeated calls to the radio station.” Turning back to Paris, he asked, “Mrs. Armstrong didn’t recognize his voice on the tapes?”

  “She’s listening to them again, but I’m not sure how reliable her input will be. She’s very upset. When I told her about Janey, she underwent an emotional meltdown that I think had been brewing for days.”

  “Would you recognize Brad Armstrong on sight?”

  Paris frowned. “I don’t think so. The incident happened a long time ago. I saw him only that one time, and I was high on nitrous oxide.”

  “Would a photograph be helpful?” Rondeau asked, nudging Malloy aside and wedging himself into the center of the enclosure.

  “Possibly,” Paris said.

  He produced the CD that Toni Armstrong had brought from home and given to Paris. “Apparently Brad Armstrong scanned photos and burned them onto CDs. The ones we found during the search had porno shots taken out of magazines on them.

  “But this last one has family photographs on it. I brought it back so it could be returned to Mrs. Armstrong, but it may be useful now. May jiggle your memory, Paris.”

  “Can’t hurt to take a look,” said Curtis. He booted up the computer on his desk, then stepped aside so Rondeau could sit down. He was aware of Paris moving in close behind him to get a better look at the monitor screen. He caught a whiff of a clean scent, like shampoo.

  He executed the necessary keystrokes and within seconds a snapshot filled the screen. The family of five was posed in front of an attraction at a theme park. Parents and kids were wearing American clothing and American smiles, living the American Dream.

  Rondeau turned toward Paris. “Look familiar?”

  For several moments, she studied the man in the photograph. “Honestly, no. If I had spotted him in a crowd, I wouldn’t have immediately recognized him as the man who fondled me. It was too long ago.”

  “You’re sure you haven’t seen him recently?” Malloy asked. “If he resented you as much as Mrs. Armstrong indicated, he might have been stalking you.”

  “If I have seen him, it didn’t register.”

  Curtis, who was still studying the Armstrong family snapshot, said, “I wonder who took the picture.”

  “Probably he did,” Rondeau said. “A guy who has a scanner and makes a CD photo album—”

  “Would be into cameras,” Curtis finished for him. He turned to Gavin. “Janey told you her new boyfriend took that picture of her, correct?”

  The kid withered beneath the attention of everyone in the room. His left knee was doing a jackhammer number. “Yes, sir. When she gave me the picture, she said he’d taken that one and lots of others. She said he liked taking the pictures almost as much as the sex.”

  “I don’t recall any camera equipment being found during the search of their house,” Rondeau said. “But he’s got to have a setup or he wouldn’t have these family photographs. Some were taken with wide-angle or telephoto lenses.”

  “Has the lab turned up anything on that photo Janey gave Gavin?” Malloy asked.

  Querulously Curtis shook his head. “The only prints on it belonged to Janey and Gavin.”

  “Sergeant Curtis?” Griggs poked his head in, interrupting.

  “In a minute,” the detective told him.

  “What about the local outlets for photographic supplies?” Malloy asked.

  “Still being investigated,” Curtis said. “Running down their clients is a time-consuming process.”

  “You wouldn’t think that many people had their own darkrooms,” Malloy said.

  “Mail-order customers. Faxed-in orders. People ordering online. It’s a chore.”

  Griggs interrupted a second time. “Sergeant Curtis, this is important.”

  But Curtis’s mind was moving down a single track. He addressed the detectives who had clustered just outside his cubicle. Some didn’t work homicide cases, but he’d asked everyone in the unit for their cooperation and time if they could spare it.

  “Somebody determine if there’s a darkroom in Brad Armstrong’s home. Garage, attic, toolshed, extra bathroom. I don’t care how crude.” One of the detectives peeled away from the group in a hurry.

  “We need Brad Armstrong’s telephone records ASAP. Find out what’s taking so long.” Another detective rushed away to carry out that assignment.

  “Print out a picture of him—no family members, just him. Get it to all the TV stations in time for their first evening newscasts. He’s wanted for questioning, got it? Questioning,” he stressed to the detective who reached for the CD that Rondeau helpfully ejected from Curtis’s computer.

  “Also distribute it to the intelligence officers who’re checking out those photo places,” Curtis called out across the cubicles. “Have it
faxed to all the other agencies that are helping us in the search.”

  That business dispatched, Rondeau said, “Sir, I apologize for not putting it together sooner.”

  “Never mind.” Curtis, dismissing him in a way that stung, turned to Paris. “His wife will be our best source of information. Are you sure she’ll cooperate?”

  “Absolutely. Whether or not he’s Valentino, she wants him to be found and has promised to cooperate in any way she can.”

  Curtis bobbed his head at a plainclothes policewoman. “Ask Mrs. Armstrong who takes their family photographs. Make it conversational.”

  While everyone was distracted, Rondeau looked over at Gavin Malloy and winked. The boy mouthed, Get fucked. Rondeau smiled.

  “Sergeant?” Griggs was still making a nuisance of himself. “Excuse me?”

  Finally Curtis turned to him and growled, “What is it, for christsake?”

  “S . . . somebody to see you, sir,” he stammered. “And . . . and Ms. Gibson.”

  “Somebody? Who?”

  Griggs pointed across the tops of the cubicle walls. Curtis and Paris followed him through the maze of tiny offices to the double-door entrance where two uniformed patrolmen were holding a handcuffed man between them.

  Paris exclaimed, “Marvin!”

  • • •

  Lancy Ray Fisher was seated at the table in one of the interrogation rooms. Paris sat across from him while Curtis stood at one end and Dean at the other. Even though they’d been focused on Dr. Brad Armstrong, the man she knew as Marvin Patterson remained a viable suspect.

  He’d walked into police headquarters and introduced himself to the officers at the lobby desk. Recognizing him instantly, they had put his hands in restraints for his elevator ride up to the third floor. He’d put up no resistance whatsoever. Each time Paris and he made eye contact, he looked away quickly, appearing to be guilty of something.

  She was surprised by how nice looking he was without his baggy coveralls and the baseball cap he wore to work. She’d never seen his face in full light. Nor had he seen hers, she reminded herself. Maybe that’s why his glances at her weren’t only guilty, but also curious.

  “Should I get a lawyer?” he asked Curtis.

  “I don’t know, should you?” the detective replied coolly. “You’re the one who called this meeting and insisted on Paris being in on it. You tell me if you need a lawyer.”

  “I don’t. Because I can tell you right off, and it’s the God’s truth, I had nothing to do with that girl’s kidnapping and murder.”

  “We haven’t accused you of having had anything to do with it.”

  “Then why’d those guys downstairs pounce on me and put me in these?” He thrust his cuffed hands toward Curtis.

  Unfazed, Curtis replied, “I’d have thought you’d be used to them, Lancy. You’ve been in them often enough.”

  The young man slumped back in his chair, acknowledging the verity of that.

  “Marvin,” Paris said, getting his attention, “they found tapes of my shows, a large number of tapes, in your apartment. I’d like to know why you had them.”

  “My real name is Lancy.”

  “I’m sorry. Lancy. Why did you collect all those tapes?”

  Dean said, “To us, it looks like you have an obsessive interest in her.”

  “I swear, it’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?” Dean asked.

  “That it’s for some kinky reason. It’s not. I . . . I’ve been studying her.” He looked at their baffled faces. “I, uh, I want to be like her. Do what she does, I mean. I want to be on the radio.”

  If he’d said he wanted to pilot a nuclear submarine through the capitol rotunda, they couldn’t have been more astonished.

  Paris was the first to recover. “You want a career in radio broadcasting?”

  “I guess you think that’s crazy, considering my criminal record and all.”

  “I don’t think it’s crazy. I’m just surprised. When did you decide on this career path?”

  “A couple years back. When I got out of Huntsville and started listening to you every night.”

  “Why Paris, specifically? Why not another deejay?”

  “Because I liked the way she talked to people,” he said to Dean. Then he turned back to her. “It seemed like you really cared about the people who called in, like you cared about their problems.” Looking abashed, he added, “For a while there, I had it pretty rough. Getting back into life on the outside. You were like my only friend.”

  Curtis was staring at him with a skeptical scowl. Dean, too, was frowning. But Paris gave him a smile that encouraged him to continue.

  “One night this guy called, told you he’d been laid off from his job and couldn’t find another. You said it seemed to you that his confidence had suffered, and that’s when you should aim the highest, reach the farthest.

  “I took the advice you gave him. I stopped trying to get penny-ante jobs and applied at the telephone company. They hired me. I was making good money, enough to pay for voice lessons. Better clothes. A good car. But I got greedy, lifted some equipment I knew I could hock fast. They didn’t file charges but they fired me.”

  He fell silent, as though castigating himself for such a bad judgment call. Paris looked over at Dean. He lifted his shoulders as though to say that Lancy could either be telling the truth or telling a whopper.

  “After a few weeks of unemployment,” he continued, “I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I saw the ad in the paper about a job at the radio station. I didn’t care that it was cleaning out the crapper . . . uh, toilets. I wanted to be in that environment any way I could get in. So I could observe you. See how you work. Maybe even pick up some of the technology.

  “I rigged a recorder up to my radio at home and had it timed to tape every show. During the daytime, I’d replay the tapes and try to imitate the way you talked. I practiced, trying to get your diction and the rhythm of your speech down. I took more lessons to get rid of my accent.”

  He shot her a grin. “As you can hear, that’s going to take a lot more work. And of course I know I’ll never be as good as you no matter how hard I work at it. But I’m determined to give it my best shot. I wanted to . . . I had to, what do they call it?”

  “Reinvent yourself?” she guessed.

  His eyes lit up. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s why I was using an alias. My real name sounds too much like where I came from.”

  Curtis tossed a folder onto the table and when Lancy saw that it was his criminal record, he winced. “I know it looks bad, but I swear to God I’ve put that life behind me.”

  “It’s a long list of wrongdoing, Lancy. Did you find Jesus in Huntsville, or what?”

  “No, sir. I just didn’t want to be trash for the rest of my life.”

  Curtis harrumphed, unconvinced.

  Lancy glanced around and must have realized that they were still skeptical. He wet his lips and in a tone of desperation said, “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Paris. She’s my idol. I haven’t made any threatening phone calls. As for that girl who turned up dead, I don’t know anything.”

  Curtis propped a hip on the corner of the table and addressed the younger man in a deceptively friendly way. “You like high school girls, Lancy Ray?”

  “Sir?”

  “You dropped out of school at sixteen.”

  “I got my GED while I was in prison.”

  “But you skipped all the fun of high school. Maybe you’re making up for what you missed.”

  “Like the girls, you mean?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  He shook his head emphatically. “I don’t pick up underage girls and have sex with them. I’m not perfect, but that’s not my thing.”

  “Do you like women?”

  “You mean, over men? Hell, yes.”

  “You’ve got a handsome face. Good build. It can get awfully lonely in prison.”

  Self-consciously Lancy cast
a look at Paris, then lowered his head and muttered, “They left me alone. I stabbed one in the . . . in the testicles with a fork. I got a year tacked onto my sentence for it, but they didn’t bother me after that.”

  She was embarrassed for him. She hoped Curtis would let up, but she was afraid that if she interfered he would ask her to leave and she wanted to hear this.

  Curtis said, “I met your mother yesterday.”

  Lancy raised his head and looked directly at the detective. “She’s a cow.”

  “Whoa! Did you hear that, Dr. Malloy? Did that sound like latent hostility toward a female? A resentment—”

  “I don’t like my mother,” Lancy said heatedly, “but that doesn’t carry over into my sex life. If that was your mother, would you like her?”

  Curtis persisted. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Want one?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes,” Curtis repeated. “When you get a hankering for a girlfriend, what do you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Lancy Ray.” Curtis tapped the folder with a blunt index finger. “You were sent up for sexual assault.”

  “That was a bullshit rap.”

  “That’s what all rapists say.”

  “This guy, this movie producer—”

  “A pornographer.”

  “Right. We were making triple-X-rated skin flicks in his garage. He got upset when his girl started coming on to me. It was all right for us to . . . you know, while his camera was rolling. But not in private. So he and I got into it and—”

  “And you cut him up pretty bad.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “The jury didn’t buy it, and neither do I,” Curtis said. “When you finished with him, you started in on the girl.”

  “No, sir!”

  He denied it so emphatically and indignantly that Paris had to believe he was telling the truth. “It was him. He worked her over good.” He pointed to the folder. “All those things that were done to her, he did.”