“It’s not that many,” he had said. “And they glow in the dark! Besides, I’ve always wanted to make love to you under the stars.”
When Barbara was little, she and her mother spent hours each week looking through the telescope. That’s where she learned all about the constellations. When David learned about her love of stars, he became enthusiastic about them, too. Though she thought his interest had become an obsession.
“You have an odd fascination with stars,” she said.
“One day soon I’ll tell you why,” he said. “Meanwhile, indulge me.”
He never had the chance to tell her why he loved stars so much, or why she couldn’t read him like she read other people or why he’d suddenly insisted that they had to travel the world.
Maybe her dad was right. Perhaps she needed to move altogether, work on creating new memories someplace else. Someplace without David’s stars.
She counted one last time, then she knew she would have to stop. Eighteen. It had been eighteen months since David died, which meant that their baby would have been almost one year old by now. If she hadn’t lost the baby on the day its father had been killed. Two deaths in one day.
The police had investigated the shooting and hadn’t been able to figure out who did it or why. She had given them the name Elias that David had mentioned. There was no trace of that name in David's client records and nothing in his files to indicate foul play. So they called his murder random. The shooting was just one of those things that happened in a cruel world, they had told her.
She checked the time: 3:33 a.m. She would have to pick up her father’s prescriptions from the twenty-four hour pharmacy on her way in to work today. She made a mental note. Then she would go in to the spa early, get her room ready for clients. While she gave her clients their facials, they would talk endlessly about their lives. That would give her a few hours’ respite from thinking about hers.
A noise sounded above her, like a door opening. She squeezed her eyes shut, panic sprinting through her chest. She had never noticed noises in their home when David was alive. She wondered if it was his spirit that roamed the house, unsettled because he had never told her his secrets.
She looked quickly at the alarm keypad. Both red lights were illuminated which meant that she had remembered to turn the system on before lying down for the evening. Doors and windows were locked. She was fine. She filled her lungs with air and exhaled slowly, gently, to calm herself.
She wasn’t going to call the police this time. Not again. Too many times they had come when she called in the middle of the night, too many times they inspected the house and they never found anyone. Once a policeman suggested she try therapy or antidepressants, so that she wouldn't hear noises in the middle of the night anymore. She almost clocked him upside the head with her shoe.
A creak whined into the quiet and fear propelled her upright and to the edge of the recliner. She switched off the lamp. She knew that particular sound. It was the spot in the middle of the second step on the stairway. Her heart pumped and kicked and begged her to run. She tiptoed across the den and into the kitchen, slid the largest knife from the wooden block and kept it at her side.
She stood with her back to the stove, her eyes shifting between the two doorways into the kitchen: one led from the small dining room, the other led from the den.
She listened hard in the quiet, expecting another sign that she had an intruder. The wind blew through the trees, forcing the outdoor chimes to dance their song. The house stayed quiet.
After a few moments she let out a deep breath, certain that she had lost her mind. No one else was here but her. She pointed the tip of the knife to the open slot on the wooden knife block, embarrassed that she had overreacted. Maybe she needed more therapy.
A long creak sounded and her stomach dropped hard and fast.
That was the last step on the staircase. She knew because that board had groaned since she and David walked through the house for the first time.
She watched each doorway for signs that someone was coming in, her head turning left, then right, left again. Until she felt like a sitting duck. If he had a gun, he would probably shoot her as soon as he saw her. She had to make a move.
Which way. Which way.
The back door had to be unlocked with a key, and those were hanging on the wall in the dark. It would be better to go out the front door. If he wasn’t in the living room, he was probably in the den by now. She could get out the front door unnoticed.
She crouched low and peered around the corner, watching the darkness for any movement. Step by quiet step she stuck close to the wall and moved toward the front door.
In her mind she practiced how quickly she would flip the two locks on the wooden front door. One, two. One, two. She hoped she had forgotten to lock the storm door. That lock was small and not easy to undo in the light of day, much less at night and under duress.
When she reached the living room, there was enough of a glow coming from the front porch light for her to see that no one else was in the space. Immediately she thought of all the shadowy places he could be. Beside the couch, behind the arm chair.
She thought of making a run for it—just running fast through the room, and unlocking the doors as quickly as she could. The storm door would probably give way if she slammed it hard enough with her shoulder.
No. Quiet was better. Someone hiding in her home, probably spying on her, someone like that would want the upper hand. They would want her to panic.
Toe-heel, toe-heel, silent steps over the carpet. Her fast-running heart forcing her to draw in a breath through her mouth.
She reached the front door and unlocked the deadbolt.
Something clicked behind her and the stairway light came on, illuminating the foyer. Pain shot through her eyes from the bright light; she gasped. Knew right away that the click had been a gun.
“Drop the knife.” His voice was low and his words were accented.
She released her grip and the knife clattered on the foyer tile. “Take whatever you want, just let me go.”
“I’ll let you go when you tell me where the diamonds are. They’re not at the warehouse. So, he must have hidden them here.”
Diamonds? The warehouse. There had been four break-ins at David’s warehouse since he died. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you have a safe?”
“There’s no safe.”
“Then where are they? You’re gonna give ‘em back or I’m gonna do to you what I did to your husband. You got me?”
Her thoughts raced. Her husband. Diamonds. His murder hadn't been random. Elias. The name came back to her as if someone slid a notecard in front of her with his name printed in bright red ink.
“My husband didn’t have any diamonds.” Her voice pitched high with panic. “I don’t know what you're talking about.”
He pressed the gun to her head. “Your husband should have given them back when I gave him the chance.” He grabbed both of her arms, pushed her onto the ground and tied her wrists with what sounded like duct tape. He was going to shoot her, she knew it.
“Elias, don't shoot!” she said quickly.
He loosened his grip, and the pressure of the gun drifted away.
“So, you do know what this is about,” he said and pressed the gun flush against her head once again.
“I've called 911.” Her voice was low, strong. She hoped he believed her. She hoped he wanted diamonds more than he wanted to hurt her.
He snatched her by the hair on the back of her head and turned her toward him. The only thing showing through his ski mask were his eyes—cold, brown, mean. His breath reeked of old cigarette smoke, rotting and wet.
“You return the diamonds and I’ll leave you alone. If you don't, you know what will happen.” He slammed her head against the tile floor and pain ricocheted inside her skull.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “Have the diamonds ready.”
She laid there expect
ing him to step over her or shove her aside on his way out the front door. Instead, she heard his footsteps as he ran up the stairs.
3
Barbara sat on the front steps of her neighbor’s condo and tried to get the image of her intruder’s eyes out of her head.
For the last eighteen months, two weeks and six days since his murder, she had yet to go one day without seeing her dead husband’s sightless gaze staring up at her. Now she had another image to work out of her mind—those two brown eyes of the man who pointed a gun at her head tonight. The eyes that belonged to the man who murdered her husband.
“Did you recognize anything about him? Do you think he could have worked in David’s warehouse?” Her neighbor, Terri, pulled her gray-streaked, shoulder-length dark hair into a ponytail holder and wrapped a shawl around Barbara’s bare arms.
Barbara ran her fingers over the tender lump that formed on the side of her head. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“I just don’t know how he would have gotten in. Not with the doors locked and the alarm on,” Terri said.
“All I can think is that he must have come in through one of the upper story windows. Those aren’t wired for the alarm system.”
“How in the hell would he have gotten up there? Burglars don’t usually travel with ladders when they’re trying to break into a home.” Terri waved to her own condo behind her, which was identical to Barbara’s.
There were eighteen two-story condos in their small development. Six condos were attached to one another in three groupings. They were arranged in the shape of a square with one side missing, green space and a parking lot filling the middle area.
Most of the neighbors were older than Barbara, empty nesters who enjoyed their smaller homes and traveled to warmer climates in the winter. She and David had been only one of three young couples on the block.
Dark clouds rolled against the early morning sky, like pillows of black soot gliding over gray steel. The police car lights flashed with quiet alarm and reflected off of the condos that faced the parking lot. Many of her neighbors had come over and asked if she needed any help. Now they stood in small groups close to their own front steps, waiting for more information. Wondering what went wrong.
“Mrs. Silver?” A tall, slender man with wavy blond hair emerged from her home, two doors down. He didn’t wear a uniform as the other policemen did. Instead he wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and a zippered jacket with the initials CPD across the back.
“She’s over here!” Terri called.
Barb stood when he arrived, wrapped her arms around herself, both to stem the early morning chill and to calm her nerves.
“Mrs. Silver, I’m Detective Boone. Charlotte Police Department.” His voice was strong, commanding, in control.
“Ms.” Barbara said. “Ms. Silver. My husband died a year and a half ago.”
His lips thinned into a line. “I’m sorry.”
She had heard more apologies in the past year than she had heard in her entire life. None of them fixed anything.
“Do you mind telling me what happened?” He rested his hands on his hips.
She told him the whole story, how the guy with the ski mask was looking for diamonds and how she had no idea what he was talking about. She told him that he taped her wrists and then disappeared up the stairs again and that the alarm didn’t go off until she opened the front door. “I don’t know how he got in or out. But the upstairs windows aren’t on the alarm system.” She wondered if he was still hiding in the condo somewhere. Maybe in a corner of the attic. “When I finally managed to get out the front door, I ran to Terri’s and kicked at her door until she answered. She cut the tape from my wrists and called you guys.”
The officer looked at Terri. “You have the tape?”
“I have it inside,” Terri gestured to her closed front door.
“Good. I'll have someone come over to get it into an evidence bag. Don't touch it again, we may be able to get some fingerprints.”
Barbara knew what the detective was going to say next and she wanted to beat him to the punch. “Let me guess. There was no one inside.”
“We didn’t find anyone, ma’am,” he said. “But when your neighbor’s call came in, I pulled up your address and I saw your call-in history.”
Barbara rested her forehead in her hand. She knew what was coming.
“You had a break-in about a year and a half ago. And on eight separate occasions, you made 911 calls in the middle of the night—”
“You’re not going to tell me I’m crazy, are you? Or that I need grief counseling? Because I’ve had a lot of therapy over the past year. Someone really did break into my home, tie me up and threaten me.”
“If I were the kind of guy to say that to any woman, my wife would have served me divorce papers a long time ago.” Detective Boone gave her a gentle smile that was intended to comfort.
Her shoulders relaxed a notch. She read his name tag: W. Boone.
“What’s your first name?”
“Walter.”
She tuned into his name, repeated it over and over in her mind, and waited. Within a moment or two the information became clear. First, the fact that he had a methodical mind, he focused on facts and clues, he paid attention to every detail, no matter how small. Those details usually paid off for him. Second, that he had a soft spot for women, liked taking care of them. Third, that he wouldn’t solve this case. He wouldn’t find the man who killed her husband and who had threatened her tonight.
She didn’t always get predictive information like that about people, but tonight she did. Her heart fell hard, like a heavy rock to the bottom of a lake. If the police couldn't help her, she had nowhere else to turn.
“We took some extra time to look around. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. I don’t mind.” He was the first policeman in a long time to show her this kind of care and concern. “Thank you. Did you find anything?”
“Come with me. I’ll show you.”
She hugged and thanked Terri for helping her. Then Barbara followed Detective Walter Boone to the second story of her own home. Her body ached from too much anxiety and not enough sleep.
“It’s just down here,” he said.
They passed several uniformed police men and women as they dusted for fingerprints and took pictures of her home. Several of them nodded to her in a practiced way.
They walked down the long narrow hallway that she and David had painted yellow the week after they moved in. Then, up three carpeted stairs to the small bonus room that David had used as his office. After the break-in, every drawer in his desk had been yanked out and left on the floor, papers scattered everywhere. Now she knew what they had been searching for. What Elias had been searching for. But David didn't have any diamonds.
Detective Boone stood in the middle of the small room with the angled ceiling and turned to her. “How well do you know your neighbors?” He pointed to the far wall, the common wall her unit shared with the condo next door.
“Mr. Burke lived there when we first moved in. Older man, very friendly. He had two dogs and we chatted when he took them out for a walk.”
“He’s not there anymore?"
“No, he moved to Florida about a year and a half ago, I guess. Right before David was killed.”
“Right before David was killed.” He scribbled something on his notepad. “Do you know the new owners?” He widened his stance and crossed his arms. His words were smooth and intentional, like steel fishing hooks laid out as bait.
Barb shook her head. “Mr. Burke said the man made him an offer that was too good to turn down. He apologized before he left, saying that the new owner was young. Everyone in here has owned their condo for years. People were concerned it might be a college student. You know, loud music and parties and overgrown grass and so forth.”
“Made him an offer?”
“Yeah, he didn’t even have his unit on the market. But when the guy made the offer, Mr. Burke snapped i
t up.” Her words slowed. “Are you saying the guy who broke in lives next door?”
He made a few more notes. “Just a second. Have you ever seen the new owners?”
Barb ran her hands over her face her teeth were starting to gnash against one another. Her husband's killer in her own home, the gun, the threats, the flurry of police in her house, and now this line of questioning—fear and frustrations rose like a slow-building scream.
He raised his eyebrows at her, waiting for an answer.
She drew in a deep breath. “Well, there’s a guy who comes in and out occasionally. Youngish. Late twenties, maybe. He keeps to himself. Always wears a baseball cap and these sort of sleek, sporty sunglasses. He doesn’t speak. Just parks out front here, keeps his head down, goes right inside. If David were still around I would have taken him a cake or a pie or something and welcomed him to the neighborhood. Tried to make friends. But, I haven’t really been in the mood for socializing this year.” Her tone was peevish in spite of her intention to sound cooperative.
Detective Boone nodded, his blue eyes sharp and focused on her. “Do you know if he was here last night? Do you remember seeing his car?”
“He drives a dark blue Ford sedan. I don't have any idea if he was here or not.”
Detective Boone put on a pair of purple latex gloves, the kind she had seen doctors and nurses wear. “Okay, after I show you this, I want you to leave your home for tonight. If you can swing it, it would be a good idea if you left town for a few weeks. Let this guy lose track of you. Let us focus on finding him. Do you have any out-of-town relatives you can stay with for a while? Might be safer that way.”
Her heart banged against her ribs.
“At the very least, don’t come back until this is sealed.”
“Until what is sealed?”
He pointed to a small square door in the wall near the floor; the silver handle had splotches of black powder on it. He placed a finger over his lips and drew his gun. “Doors like this typically just lead to a crawl space. People usually leave them empty or use them for light storage. Builders leave them unfinished because it gives homeowners access to exterior lighting and so forth. Have you ever been inside this area? Maybe you stored Christmas decorations or high school yearbooks in here at one time?”
Chasing Secrets Page 2
