Disturbance (22 page)

“That’s fine with me. Let’s get going.”

It felt good to have a plan, Frank thought. Good to be taking some action. Something to fight the undertow of worry, pulling him toward his worst fears.

Frank caught some luck, if
you could call it that, at the Fireside.

The place was busy, and a band was playing loud enough to make conversation nearly impossible. The band took a break, but Frank’s conversation with the bartender was constantly interrupted as he served his customers.

The bartender, at first reticent, soon became convinced that Frank was not an irate husband of a cheater but a man sincerely worried that his wife was in danger. This conviction was brought home to him, perhaps, after Frank called the manager over, showed him his badge, and said that although he wasn’t working a case, he could get some people in here who would be working one, and do it before closing time.

“Talk to him,” the manager said to the bartender. “Use the office. I’ll cover for you here.” To Frank, he added, “I’m doing you a favor, so please don’t take all night, okay?”

Before Frank could reply, the bartender said, “Should I give him the phone she left?”

“Sure. It’s in the lost and found drawer. You have the key, right?”

The bartender assured him he did.

As Frank followed the bartender to the small back room, he fought down the despair he felt at learning Irene had left here without the phone. All the scenarios he had imagined, trying to rationalize why he hadn’t heard from her—she had gotten caught up covering a story, she had seen an old friend and lost track of time, she was feeling hemmed in and just decided to go AWOL for a few hours, even the ones in which she was hurt but in a hospital, cared for and just not yet located—all those fantasies collapsed.

In the relative quiet of the office, the bartender took another look at one of the photos Frank carried of her and said, “Yes, that’s her. She and a big blond dude came in here at the beginning of my shift. I didn’t think they were lovers, if you’re worried about that.”

“I’m not, but tell me what makes you say so.”

“In the first place, he was expecting someone else to join them. I overheard him say he had a friend on the way. But mostly, well, they weren’t loverlike. I mean, at first I thought she was this good-looking cougar or something, ’cause she was older than him, but she wasn’t flirting with him, and he wasn’t flirting with her. That’s straight. It was almost like it was just a business discussion, him doing most of the talking. Which is probably why she ended up drinking so much more than he did.”

“What?”

The bartender explained that the lady had downed the better part of a pitcher of margaritas and was none too steady on her feet when they left.

That wasn’t like Irene at all, especially not if she was working on a story, or thought that was the purpose of meeting with the unknown man. One drink, maybe. A pitcher of margaritas?
No way. She didn’t drink them more than once in a great while—she wasn’t that fond of tequila.

“She was walking on her own when they left?”

“He was helping her, but yes.”

“How did he pay for the drinks?”

“Cash.”

“Have you seen him in here before?”

“No.”

Frank coaxed as complete a description of the man as he could out of the bartender. “You have security cameras,” Frank said, glancing toward a pair of monitors.

“Sure, but you have to talk to the boss about that. And quite honestly, they aren’t worth shit. I mean, take a look at what it’s showing you now.”

He was right, they were definitely grainy, and shifted from location to location every few minutes. “Anything will help,” Frank said.

“Okay, when we’re done here, I’ll ask him. Are we done?”

“In a minute. Did anyone else approach them or talk to them?”

“No—although he got a call while he was picking up the pitcher.”

“You remember his side of the conversation?”

“Something about making a delivery. I didn’t listen in.”

“Male or female caller?”

He rubbed his chin. “It’s weird, but I’d say it was a dude. Just his tone of voice when he was talking. But I didn’t hear any names, so that’s a guess.”

“What kind of mood was he in?”

“Mood?”

“Excited? Nervous? Happy?”

“No, not happy.” He shrugged. “Not a troublemaker. Couldn’t say more than that.”

He stood up, went to a paper-cluttered counter, and unlocked one of the wooden drawers beneath it. He took out a small plastic bag with a phone in it, the baggie marked with the date and time it had been left.

“I guess I should ask for some way to prove this is hers,” he said.

Frank took out his phone, hit the speed dial for Irene’s number. “It’ll play a few notes from a jazz standard,” he said. The phone in the bag rang.

“Ella?” the bartender asked, handing it over.

“Yes,” Frank said.

“‘All the Things You Are’?”

Frank nodded.

The bartender studied him for a moment, then said, “I’ll ask my manager to come back here and look through the video for you. Can I have him bring a drink back?”

“No, no thanks. Thanks for your time.”

“No problemo,” he said and left just as the band started to play again.

After his first look at the video, Frank called his partner. He had hesitated to disturb Pete, who had looked forward to a rare evening at home with Rachel. But Frank knew this was no longer something he could pursue without the department’s knowledge, and he wasn’t going to insult Pete by not letting him in on what was going on.

“Did the thought ever cross
your mind this evening,” Vince said about an hour later, “that we should have been called in on this right away?”

“Vince …,” Reed said wearily. He turned to the manager of the bar. “Frank said you have the video cued up for us?”

The office was hot and stuffy now. The four detectives,
Rachel, and the manager crowded around the monitor. The manager pressed a remote, and the screen showed a tall blond man standing at the bar, paying cash for a pitcher of margaritas and then filling two glasses while at the bar, then apparently asking the bartender for some limes. As the bartender turned away to put a few lime wedges in a small dish, the man’s right hand moved over one of the glasses.

“Right there,” Frank said.

“Yes, I see it,” Rachel said.

“I don’t know,” Vince said.

“Keep watching,” Pete advised.

Frank nodded to the manager, who sped the recording up until it showed the “couple” leaving the bar, the man guiding Irene and supporting her with an arm around her waist as she stumbled her way out.

Vince looked back at Frank with raised brows.

“Don’t say it,” Rachel warned.

“I wasn’t going to remark on the fact that they looked awfully cozy,” Vince said. “Just wondering if she was over-served.”

Frank’s phone rang. The others watched and listened, but all he said was “Thanks, we’ll be right over.”

“She showed up?” Vince asked.

Frank looked at Reed, ignoring Vince. “Guy St. Germain has isolated some footage taken from the bank across the street that shows them going into and out of the Fireside. He’ll show it to us in his office.”

The images from the bank
were much clearer, although taken from a distance that made it hard to see faces.

“Not close enough to identify him,” Guy said, “but it’s obvious that by the time they reach the car, she’s hardly able to stand.”

“She’s definitely drugged,” Rachel said. “Irene has a hard head. Two margaritas would never make this kind of mess out of her.”

Guy stopped the playback as the brown Ford Escape drove up the street toward the bank.

“Good shot of the plate there. I’ve got the number for you.”

“Thanks, Guy,” Reed said. “This is a real help.”

The plate was stolen, taken
off a van that had been parked at a repair shop. The alert went out to the media about the missing Las Piernas reporter, the description of the man who was a “person of interest” in the case. Lydia sat down with the police artist so that a drawing that looked something like the man would be ready in time for the morning news broadcasts.

Frank went home, thanked everyone for their help, and tried to think of a way to ask them—as politely as possible—to leave, so that he could smash something to pieces and do it without an audience. Then Ethan’s phone rang.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was after three in the morning.

Ethan listened, gave a series of orders, then hung up and said, “Holy shit—Quinn Moore has been shot. They’ve got him in the ER at St. Anne’s.”

N
icholas Parrish held the knife up to the light, its blade glistening, feeling its weight and balance. It was a work of art—a skinning knife made with a stag handle. He loved the feel of it as it warmed in his hand.

He owned many knives, but this one was a favorite. It was neither the longest nor the most threatening in appearance from his collection, but he always felt powerful when he held it.

He unlocked the bedroom door, opened it an inch, and waited, listening. The soft sound of her slow and steady breathing came to him, and he entered the room.

The room was dark, except for the faint glow from a small night-light just inside the adjoining bathroom. He used his cell phone to illuminate his path until he stood next to the bed.

She stirred, moving from her back to her side. He thought of how it would feel to run the knife just below her skin, flaying her in sections. Imagined her awakening to find him in control as he began the process of using the knife the way any good hunter would.

The back of her neck lay exposed in the blue-gray light cast by the phone, and he brought the tip of the knife closer, nearly
touching her, and considered slipping the blade between her vertebrae, paralyzing her as he had been paralyzed.

A cough sounded in the adjoining room, startling him. He straightened, angry at his jumpiness. It was only Violet, who was hardly in any condition to harm him, after all. He would think more about Violet later.

He turned his attention back to Irene and thought again of ways to harm her. He might cut off small sections of her at a time—the end of a small toe, the toe, all the toes, and so on. Or perhaps just disable her one muscle group at a time.

He frowned. As appealing as these ideas were as revenge, he was dismayed to notice that something essential to his enjoyment of them was missing: the usual sexual response brought on by his rage was utterly absent.

That realization produced a fresh wave of wrath, but he mastered it. Despite a brief image that flashed through his mind, he knew he would leave the room. He refused to become one of those pathetic creatures who raped with objects—a sure sign of emasculation. He would never let that be said of him.

Perhaps Donovan was right. She had lost her appeal. That must be it. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced it was true. And perhaps he had strayed too far from his original purpose for her. Things were not working out as they should. He sheathed the knife, closed the phone, and thought about this in the near darkness.

Another cough came from Violet’s room, interrupting his thoughts. He again used the light from the phone to navigate his way into the bathroom, then to the door on the other side. He opened it and stepped through, closing the door quietly behind him.

Donovan said Irene could care for the sick. Well, he seemed to be running a damned hospital in here.

Violet was clearly awake. He could have turned on the lights.
But he continued to use the phone, enjoying the widening of her eyes when she realized who was leaning over her bed. She was blinking rapidly, one of her occasional tics, exacerbated by fear, he thought. He had asked Kai if she could communicate answers to yes or no questions by blinking, but Kai had said no, the blinking was uncontrolled. “The doctor tried to get her to do that after she fell,” Kai had said. “Kept trying from the time when she was first conscious again, but it didn’t work.”

“Are you keeping secrets, Violet?” Parrish asked her now. “I’m damned sure that was no ordinary fall down the stairs. How long did you lie there, I wonder, before he could bring a friend home to ‘discover’ you?”

The rapid blinking continued. Parrish smiled at her, then leaned over and took her mouth with his. She lay passively, having no real choice to do otherwise. She could have moved her head or bitten him, he supposed, but she let him do as he liked, until he moved a hand to one of her breasts.

She made inarticulate gurgling sounds.

He drew back, angry.

Memories of the seemingly endless hours in which he had lain paralyzed flooded his mind. Memories of making that same gurgling sound. A time when he had first suffered head and spinal injuries, thanks to Irene Kelly.

Infuriated, he moved toward the room in which Irene lay asleep and thought of smothering her to death. Thought of choking her to death with his hands. Let that fucking bitch gurgle!

No. Nothing so quick for her.

Some slight rustling sound, one of the few small shoulder movements Violet could manage, brought his attention back to her.

“Your son has been shot,” he told her and saw her close her eyes. He took her jaw in a strong hand and pressed hard, until
she opened her eyes again. “Be good and I’ll try to see that he lives.”

She closed her eyes again, and this time he let go. “I’ve brought a new nurse for you,” he said, but she kept her eyes closed.
Ah well. Time enough to have fun with that.

He checked on Kai, who
was sleeping soundly, looking more boyish than usual.
What a troublesome lad you’ve turned out to be.
Parrish recognized a flicker of some strange response to watching him sleep. Not fatherly love. Not even parental affection, really. Perhaps Donovan had said it best—curiosity. What of himself was there in Kai? Would Kai grow, as he aged, to be more like his father?

Or would Kai fail to conquer his impulsiveness?

There was a legacy to protect here, and that brought Parrish’s thoughts back to Irene Kelly.