Girl Missing (18 page)

But he did hear the knock.

He hung up on the kid and went to open the front door. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you—”

“Everything’s fixed.”

“It is?”

“I told you it would be.” The visitor stepped inside, shut the door.

“Look, I can’t deal with this! I never thought it’d go this far—”

“Herb, I’m telling you, you don’t have a thing to worry about.”

“Quantrell’s going to find out! It’s only a matter of—” Esterhaus paused, staring at his visitor. At the gun. He shook his head in disbelief.

The gun fired twice, two clean shots.

The impact of the bullets sent Esterhaus jerking backward. He sprawled against the couch, his blood sliding in rivulets across the fabric. Through fading vision, he stared up at his murderer. “Why?” he whispered.

“I told you, Herb. You don’t have a thing to worry about. And now, neither do I.”

Thomas, as usual, was waiting at the front door to greet them. By now he seemed a built-in part of the house, as affixed to it as the mantelpiece or the wainscoting, and just as permanent.
The difference was, Thomas actually
wanted
to be there. Kat saw it now, in his smile of welcome, in the fatherly affection with which he helped Adam remove his coat. It was apparent they went back a long way, these two; she could almost see them as they must have been thirty years ago, the young man reaching down to assist the boy struggling out of his winter coat.

Thomas hung their jackets in the closet. “There were two calls while you were out, Mr. Q.,” he said.

“Anything important?”

“Miss Calderwood phoned to ask if you were still on for the afternoon with the Wyatts. And if so, where were you?”

Adam groaned. “Good Lord, I forgot all about Isabel!” He reached for the hall telephone. “She’s going to be furious.”

“She did seem rather put out.”

Adam dialed Isabel’s number and stood waiting while it rang. “Who else called?”

“A Dr. Herbert Esterhaus. About two hours ago.”

“Esterhaus?” Adam glanced up sharply. “Why?”

“He wouldn’t say. Something about the laboratory,
I assume. He did imply it was somewhat urgent.”

“Where is he?”

“That’s his number there, on the notepad.”

Adam hung up and dialed the number Thomas had written down. It kept ringing.

“He said he’d be home all day,” said Thomas. “Perhaps he stepped out for a moment.”

Adam glanced at Kat. It was a look, nothing more, but she saw in his eyes a flicker of apprehension.
Something’s happened. He feels it, too
.

Adam hung up. “Let’s drive by his house.”

“But you’ve only just arrived,” said Thomas.

“It doesn’t feel right. Herb wouldn’t call me at home unless it was important.”

Resignedly, Thomas reached back into the closet for their jackets. “Really, Mr. Q. All this rushing around.”

Adam smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “At least you won’t have us underfoot, hm?”

Thomas merely sighed and walked them to the door.

Just as they climbed into Adam’s car, a Mercedes pulled into the driveway, its tires spitting gravel. Isabel stuck her head out the window.
“Adam!” she called. “Have you forgotten about the Wyatts?”

“Give them my regrets!”

“I thought we were on for this afternoon—”

“Something’s come up. I can’t make it. Look, I’ll call you later, Isabel, all right?”

“But Adam, you—”

Her words were cut off by the roar of the Volvo as Adam and Kat drove off. She was left behind in the driveway, staring in disbelief.

Adam glanced in his mirror at the receding Mercedes. “Damn. How am I going to explain this away?”

“Just tell her what happened,” said Kat. “She already knows what’s going on, doesn’t she?”

“Isabel?” He snorted. “First, Isabel is not equipped to deal with unpleasantness of any sort. It’s not in her sphere of knowledge. Second, she’s not good at keeping secrets. By the time the gossip got down the street and back again, I’d be a major drug dealer and Maeve would have three heads and be practicing voodoo.”

“You mean … she doesn’t know about Maeve?”

“She knows I have a stepdaughter. But she
never asks about her. And I don’t fill her in on the gory details.”

“Isn’t a problem kid something you’d want to sort of
mention
to your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?” He laughed.

“Well, what
do
you call her then?”

“A social companion. Suitable for all occasions.”

“Oh.” She looked out the window. “I guess that covers everything.”

To her surprise, he reached over and squeezed her thigh. “Not quite everything.”

She frowned at his laughing eyes. “What does it leave out?”

“Oh, street fights, exploding houses, the sort of occasions she wouldn’t appreciate.”

“I’m not sure
I
appreciate them.”

He turned his gaze back to the road. “I’ve never slept with her, you know,” he said.

That statement was so unexpected, Kat was struck silent for a moment. She stared at his unruffled profile. “Why did you tell me that?”

“I thought you should know.”

“Well, thank you for satisfying my
burning
curiosity.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“And what am I supposed to do with this knowledge?”

He winked. “File it away in that amazing brain of yours.”

She shook her head and laughed. “I don’t know what to make of you, Quantrell. Sometimes I think you’re flirting with me. Other times, I think it’s all in my head.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You know I’m attracted to you.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “You’re not supposed to say,
Why?
You’re supposed to say,
And I’m attracted to you
.”

“Nevertheless,
why
?”

He glanced at her in surprise. “Is it so difficult to believe? That I’d find you attractive?”

“I think it’s because I’m a novelty,” she said. “Because I’m not like your other … companions.”

“True.”

“Which means it’d never work.”

“Such a pessimist,” he said with a sigh. He gave her thigh another squeeze, flashed her another grin, and looked back at the road.

Rockbrook was one of those anonymous suburbs that lie on the outskirts of any large city. It was a white-bread world of trim lawns, two cars in every garage, yards strewn with kids’ bicycles. The house where Herbert Esterhaus lived had no bicycles in the yard, and only one vehicle in the carport, but in every other way it was typical of the neighborhood—a tract home, neatly kept, with a brick walkway in front and azaleas huddled on either side of the door.

No one seemed to be home. They rang the bell, knocked, but there was no answer, and the front door was locked.

“Now what?” said Kat. She glanced up the street. A block away, two boys tossed a basketball against their garage door. The buzz of a lawn mower echoed from some unseen backyard.

They circled around to the carport. “His car’s here,” Adam noted. “And that looks like today’s paper on the front seat. So he’s driven it today.”

“Then where is he?” said Kat.

Adam went to the side door of the house. It was unlocked. He poked his head inside and called out: “Herb? Are you home?”

There was no answer.

“Maybe we should check inside,” suggested Kat.

They stepped into the kitchen. Again, Adam called out: “Herb?” A silence seemed to hang over the house. And the sense of dead air, as though no window, no door, had been opened for a very long time.

Kat spotted a set of keys on the kitchen counter. That struck her as odd, that a man would leave the house without his keys.

“Maybe you should call Thomas,” she said. “Esterhaus might have left you another message.”

“It’s a thought, but first let’s check the living room.” He headed out of the kitchen.

Seconds later Kat heard him say, “Oh God.”

“Adam?” she called. She left the kitchen and crossed the dining room. Through the living room doorway, she spotted Adam, standing by the couch. He seemed frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. “Adam?”

Slowly he turned to look at her. “It’s … him.”

“What?” She moved across the living room. Only as she rounded the couch did she see the
crimson stain soaking the carpet, like some psychiatrist’s nightmare inkblot. Stretched across the blood was an arm, its hand white and clawed.

The hand of Herbert Esterhaus.

T
HE FLASH OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER
’
S STROBE
made Kat wince. He was a crime lab veteran, and he strode casually around the body, choosing his shots with an almost bored detachment. The repeated camera flashes, the babble of too many people talking at the same time, the whine of yet another siren closing in, left Kat feeling disoriented. She’d been to crime scenes before, had been part of other, equally chaotic gatherings, but this scene was different, this victim was different. He was someone she knew, someone who just yesterday had met her handshake with one of warm flesh. His death was far too close to her, and she felt herself withdrawing into some safe, numb place where she floated on a sea of fatigue.

Only when a familiar voice called to her did
her brain snap back into focus. She saw Lou Sykes moving toward them.

“What the hell happened?” he asked.

“It’s Esterhaus,” said Adam. “He phoned me this afternoon. Said he wanted to talk. We came by and …”

Sykes glanced at the dead body sprawled on the couch. “When?”

“We got here around five.”

“He’s been dead awhile,” murmured Kat. “Probably early afternoon.”

“How do you know?” asked Sykes.

She looked away. “Experience,” she muttered.

The Rockbrook detective approached and greeted Sykes. “Sorry you got dragged over, Lou. I know this one’s technically ours, but they insisted I call you.”

“So what’ve you got?”

“Two bullet wounds in the chest. Took him down fast. No signs of forced entry. No witnesses. ME’ll have to do a look-see, give us an approximate time.”

“Dr. Novak says early afternoon.”

“Yeah, well …” The detective shifted uneasily. “They’re sending over Davis Wheelock.”

Because they’re not about to trust me on this one
, thought Kat. The Rockbrook detective was a cautious cop. He couldn’t be sure of Kat’s role in all this. Her status had changed from ME to … what? Witness? Suspect? She could see it in the way he watched her eyes, weighed her every statement.

Now Sykes began to ask questions, the same ones they’d already answered. No, they hadn’t touched anything except the phone. And, briefly, the body—to check vital signs. Events were dissected, over and over. By the time Sykes had finished, Kat was having trouble concentrating. Too many voices were talking in the room, and there were the sounds of the crowd outside, the neighbors, all pressing up against the yellow police line.

Esterhaus’s body, cocooned in a zip-up bag, was wheeled through the front door and out of the house, into a night blazing with the flash of reporters’ cameras.

Adam and Kat followed the EMTs out of the house. It was bedlam outside, cops shouting for everyone to stand back, radios crackling from half a dozen patrol cars. Two TV vans were parked nearby, klieg lights glaring. A reporter thrust a microphone in front of Kat’s
face and asked, “Were you the people who found the body?”

“Leave us alone,” said Adam, shoving the microphone away.

“Sir, can you tell us what condition—”

“I said,
leave us alone
.”

“Hey!” another reporter yelled. “Aren’t you Adam Quantrell? Mr. Quantrell?”

Suddenly the lights were redirected into their eyes. Adam grabbed Kat’s hand and pulled her along in a mad dash for the car.

The instant they were inside, they slammed and locked the doors. Hands knocked at the windows.

Adam started the engine. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he growled, and hit the gas pedal.

Even as they roared away, they could hear the questions being shouted at them.

Kat collapsed back in exhaustion. “I thought they were going to keep us there all night.”

He shot her a worried look. “Are you all right?”