In the Dead of Night (5 page)

“Microfiche is in the basement.” She rounded the desk. “I’ll show you.”

Sara followed her across the marble floor, past the children’s books section to a wide stairway that led to a low-ceilinged room with red carpet. A smattering of desks, a row of narrow file cabinets and a microfiche machine filled the room.

“We only have one machine left,” the librarian said. “Other one went kaput last year and we didn’t have budget dollars for another.”

“This one will be fine. Thank you.”

The woman smiled the way a not-so-kind grandmother would smile at a child from the wrong side of the tracks. “Dear, you look familiar. Are you from around here?”

Sara had never been a good liar. But for the time being she didn’t want anyone to know she was back. She scrambled for an answer. “I’m from L.A., actually, and researching an article for my boss.”

“Any particular subject matter?”

Murder.
“History,” she answered.

“I must be mistaken, then.” But from the glint in her eyes, Sara wasn’t sure the woman believed her. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

The instant the librarian was out of sight, Sara crossed to the row of file cabinets. Anticipation of getting her hands on information that wasn’t rumor or hearsay bolstered her, and she scanned the labels. Each was marked with a date range. Midway down the row, she paused and pulled out the drawer she needed. Setting it on the desk, she paged through each film until she came to the dates she wanted.

The day after the murders, the
Cape Darkwood Press
ran the first of many stories. Even now the headline made Sara shiver.

Prominent Hollywood Producer, Wife, Local Author Found Murdered.

Pulling out a small spiral notebook, Sara scanned the article, making notes as she went. The name of the lead detective who investigated the case. Possible witnesses. The journalist who reported it all.

The following day the headlines read:

Douglas Killings May Have Been Murder Suicide.

Sara read the piece with care, noting the evidence listed by police. Richard Douglas’s fingerprints were on the gun, a .38 caliber revolver. The gun had fallen to the floor as if Douglas had shot himself, then dropped it.

Richard Douglas May Have Killed in a Jealous Rage….

She struggled not to let the words get to her. Though she’d only been seven years old at the time, Sara had spent enough time with her father to know he was a gentle man with a kind heart. A man who kissed her nose at bedtime and made her laugh. There was no way that same man had killed two people he’d cared for in cold blood.

Working quickly now, she jotted down the name of a neighbor who’d witnessed an argument just a week before while out walking her dog. Emma Beasley. The newspaper reporter had evidently interviewed and quoted her.

It was around 6:00 a.m. when I heard Mr. Douglas shouting at his wife. Nicholas Tyson’s car was there. The lights were on in the upstairs bedroom. Strange goings-on in that house. Pity with those two little girls. I guess you never know about people.

Disgusted by the woman’s unfounded assumptions—and the journalist’s willingness to print them—Sara shook her head, hating it that gossip and hearsay may have had as much to do with the outcome of the case as the evidence itself.

Hitting the print button, she went on to the next story.

Love Triangle May Have Led to Douglas Murder Suicide.

Below the headline, a photograph of her mother and Nicholas Tyson at an outdoor café covered half the page. They sat at a table, beneath a wide umbrella. The likeness between Nick and his father struck her. Same Pacific-blue eyes. Thick brows that gave both men a brooding expression. Strong square jaw.

Something niggled at Sara as she stared at the photo. To the casual observer, they appeared to be friends enjoying a cold drink on a hot day. Upon closer inspection, Sara realized they were looking at an object on the table in front of them.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

She hit the magnification button. The photo swelled, becoming grainy and losing some detail. But the enlargement was enough for Sara to identify what was on the table in front of them.

A manuscript.

Darkness had fallen by the time Sara left the library. She’d lost herself in research and somehow spent the entire afternoon reading and printing enough material to keep her busy for a week. The most important thing she’d discovered was the photograph of her mother and Nicholas Tyson looking at the manuscript. Had her mother carried on a relationship with the true-crime writer? Was there, indeed, a missing manuscript?

Sara couldn’t get the questions out of her mind as she parked the rental car in the drive. The anonymous caller had mentioned a manuscript. Until this afternoon, she’d dismissed the notion. Now that she’d seen the photo, she wasn’t so sure. Nicholas Tyson had been a true-crime writer. He’d written several books, but had never become successful. Had he been working on a book? If so, what was it about? Did the book somehow involve her parents? Did Nick know anything about it? If so, why hadn’t he mentioned it when she asked him to reopen the case?

Distant thunder rumbled as she lugged her notebook and oversized purse to the front door and let herself in. Turning on lights as she went, Sara made her way to the kitchen and set her things on the bar. Rain lashed the windows as she traversed the foyer and ascended the stairs. The long and narrow hall stood in darkness. She was midway to her parents’ bedroom when it struck her that the bathroom light was on. She was certain she’d turned out the lights before leaving…or had she?

Sara’s heart jumped into a fast staccato. Someone was in the house. She hadn’t noticed anything out of place downstairs, but she hadn’t been paying attention. How did they get in? The front door had been locked. Of course, she hadn’t checked the back door….

A clap of thunder made her jump. But the sound was nearly drowned out by the hard pound of her heart. She reached for her cell phone only to realize she’d left it on the counter downstairs. Never taking her eyes from the slash of light beneath the bathroom door, she backed away.

The door swung open. A gasp escaped her when the dark figure of a man emerged. She got the impression of a rail-thin frame and a baseball cap before the flight instinct kicked in and sent her to the stairs. She was halfway down when recognition stopped her. Gripping the mahogany banister, she halted and looked back. A man with silver, shoulder-length hair stood in the hall, looking down at her. He wore gray coveralls, a cap and work boots. She knew his face. His clothes. She knew the way he moved.

“Skeeter?” she ventured in a shaky voice.

The caretaker grinned, his head bobbing vigorously. With the grace of a mime, he stepped back and motioned toward the bathroom. With deft hands he signed something to her. Sara didn’t understand sign language, but knew enough to realize this man didn’t mean her harm.

Feeling like a fool, she climbed the steps, flipped on the hall light and crossed to him. “You scared me.”

Skeeter spread his hands and gave her a giant shrug.

“How did you get in?” she asked.

Shoving his hand into the pocket of his coveralls, he pulled out a key ring with a single key.

Sara didn’t like the idea of anyone having a key to the house, particularly in light of the anonymous calls and the message that had been written on her windshield. She held out her hand. “Thank you, but I’ll take that for now and return it when I leave.”

He bobbed his head and dropped the key into her hand.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He motioned toward the bathroom.

Only then did Sara relax. “You fixed the leak.”

He nodded, pleased she understood.

“Thank you.” She extended her hand. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”

His gesture told her not to worry. He shook her hand gently, as if afraid he might break her fingers.

She hadn’t seen Skeeter since she was a child. He hadn’t changed much in twenty years. He was still tall and wiry and moved with an odd shuffle. He still wore gray coveralls and work boots with his hair pulled back into a ponytail. But it had receded and turned gray. Her parents had hired him as caretaker over twenty years ago. Deaf and mute, he’d frightened Sara as a child. But with a child’s open mind, she’d quickly realized the man didn’t need a voice to communicate—or to be her friend. Because of his deafness, Skeeter dropped out of school and never received special education for his deafness. But over the years, though he was mostly illiterate, he learned to read lips. In the years she’d known him, he’d fixed swing sets, repaired bicycles and erected a basketball net over the garage. By the time that last summer rolled around, she didn’t even notice the strange way he moved or that he couldn’t speak.

“I didn’t see a car,” she said. “How did you get here?”

Using his fingers, Skeeter indicated he had walked.

“So you still live in the cottage?”

He nodded.

The “cottage” was actually a tiny mobile home from the 1960s perched high above the cliffs a mile or so down the beach. Skeeter had lived there alone for as long as Sara could remember.

He signed rapidly, mouthing words and then picked up the toolbox at his side. From his body language, Sara understood he’d finished his work and was leaving. “Can I drop you at the cottage?”

Shaking his head, he headed toward the staircase. Sara trailed him to the kitchen, waving as he went through the back door to the steps that would take him to the narrow beach below.

She’d always liked and enjoyed Skeeter. She’d been happy to see him, pleased to know he was still around. It wasn’t until she grabbed her notes off the kitchen counter and looked down at the photo of her mother, Nicholas Tyson and the missing manuscript that she realized his being inside the house also troubled her.

T
HE PHONE CALLS
had worked. After twenty years the girl was back. Better yet, she was doing exactly what he wanted her to do. But she was also doing some things he hadn’t anticipated. Like asking questions about that night. Too damn many questions.

He assured himself she couldn’t possibly uncover anything that could be dangerous to him. The case was closed. Her parents and Nicholas Tyson were dead and buried right along with all the dark secrets.

There was one element he had to consider. Little Sara Douglas had been there that night. She’d witnessed the shooting. She’d seen the killer. The real question was had she heard the argument? Had her seven-year-old mind understood it? What the hell was he going to do if she started piecing things together?

It was some comfort knowing she couldn’t remember. Shortly after the killings, he’d read in the newspaper that she’d been so traumatized by the ordeal that she couldn’t remember anything about that night. But he knew from experience that memories had a way of resurfacing at the most inopportune time.

This was definitely an inopportune time.

With Sara Douglas sniffing around, he was going to have to be very careful. He couldn’t let her ruin this for him. This was his one and only shot at the big time. He’d worked too hard to get where he was. He’d paid his dues. Paid a lot more than anyone should have to. It finally looked like things were going his way. Like he would get the break he deserved. Success. Recognition. A place in the spotlight.

So long as that bitch Fate didn’t go and lay down a wild card. But he had to wonder. Was Sara Douglas a wild card?

For the moment, he needed her. She was the one person who could find what he needed. An item that would catapult his career right to the top. But she was also the only person who threatened his ticket to stardom. His dreams. His future. Everything he’d ever worked for. Everything he deserved.

All he could do was give her some rein. Let her sniff. Let her look. If all went as planned she would find the prize. When she did, he would be there to claim it.

Once that happened, Sara Douglas would become a liability. She would become more dangerous to him than ever because she wouldn’t stop there. Once she found what he needed, he would have to find a way to silence her forever.

S
ARA HAD KNOWN
the mansion well as a child. She and her sister had explored every square inch, no matter how dark or dusty and despite her mother’s scolding. Tonight, searching for a manuscript that might not even exist, she felt overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place.

“If I were going to hide something, where would I put it?”

Standing in the foyer, she nibbled on her thumbnail and tried to put herself inside the minds of her parents. Her father had designed and built the house himself. Had he considered a place to hide valuables such as jewelry or important documents or family heirlooms?

Rain slashed at the windows as Sara ascended the narrow and winding stairs to the attic. The old hinges creaked like arthritic bones when she opened the door. The odors of dust and mildew tickled her nose. She flipped the switch, and stark light rained down from a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Her shoes thudded hollowly on the old wood floor as she walked inside.

The attic was relatively small with an A-frame ceiling and a single gable window. Cardboard boxes were stacked neatly against the far wall. Someone had painstakingly packed her parents’ things. Perhaps one of her aunts or uncles in the weeks following their deaths. Sara had not only been too young, but also too distraught. She hadn’t set foot in the house since that terrible night.

Crossing to the boxes, she went to the nearest one and opened it. Inside, she found clothing. Even after twenty years she thought she caught a whiff of her mother’s perfume. The scent brought tears to her eyes. She remembered spending time up here with her mother. Sun streaming through the window. Music floating from the radio. The smell of the sea mingling with the sweet scent of roses….

Shoving the melancholy thoughts aside, Sara closed the box and went to the next one. Inside, she found a few of her old toys, a seashell collection from the beach, and several stuffed animals. Deciding to make a trip to the thrift store in town the next day, she closed the box and started a stack of things she would be donating. The third box contained an ancient-looking reel-to-reel recorder, the kind she and her sister used when they watched Godzilla movies and laughed until they cried.

Smiling, Sara closed the box and shoved it against the wall. The next box held dozens of books, old bills, bank statements and several file folders. She paged through a few of the folders and was about to close the box when a spiral notebook caught her attention. Sliding it from its ancient nest, she opened it and began to read.

Strongly slanted handwriting she didn’t recognize covered the first dozen or so pages.

Contact in Santa Monica. Evelyn. Real name? Not sure. May be a prostitute. Photo shoot in Hollywood warehouse. Doesn’t know where. No police. She has warrants. Nudes. Hinted that she was in danger. Is she credible?

Arlene in East L.A. Photo shoot in Hollywood warehouse. Brother was the last person to see her. Mother filed a missing persons report with LAPD.

Jenna Sherwood. Roommate claims she went for a photo shoot. A magazine spread. Never returned. Owed roommate money for rent. Roomie thinks she may have skipped town. Did she?

Rachel Garza. Twenty years old. Left behind a one-year-old baby. Her estranged husband believed she was trying to break into acting and/or modeling. Mentioned a job in Hollywood. Significant?

“What on earth?” Sara stared at the words, something dark and disturbing enveloping her like a cloud. It appeared someone was tracking women who’d disappeared. But why? What were the notes doing in her parents’ things? And whose handwriting was this?

Setting the notebook aside, she pulled out a brown clasp envelope. Inside, she found several yellowed newspaper stories about young missing women. She checked the names against the ones mentioned in the spiral notebook and found two that matched. Someone was, indeed, researching missing persons cases. But who? And why? What was the notebook doing with her parents’ belongings?

She paged through several more files, but found nothing relative. Closing the box, she tucked the notebook and envelope beneath her arm. She was almost to the stairs when the lights flickered and went out.

Alarm skittered through her. But remembering the old fuse box, she felt her nerves settle. There was nothing ominous in the works. Just an old house that hadn’t seen maintenance in quite some time. Or maybe the storm had taken out the transformer again.

Eyes wide, she felt her way along the wall toward the stairs. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, telling her she only had a few feet to go. Two steps and she rapped her shin against something hard. The old rocker, she realized. “Damn.” Reaching down, she rubbed her shin. When she looked up movement ahead sent her heart into overdrive.

For the span of several heartbeats, she stood frozen, trying to decide if she’d really seen a shadow or if it was a figment of an overactive imagination. Or perhaps the shadows of the tree branches moving outside the window.

Her heart tripped when a floorboard creaked off to her right. “Who’s there?” she snapped.

A noise directly behind her spun her around. Sara stared blindly into the darkness, certain there was someone in the attic with her. Her breathing quickened. Her pulse roared in her ears. Backing away from the sound she reached for her cell phone only to realize she’d left it downstairs. Damn. Damn.
Damn!

“I’m calling the police,” she called out. “Right now.”

A crash to her right sent her into flight mode. Blind and frightened, she turned and dashed in the general direction of the door. She sensed movement ahead. Heard the shuffle of shoes against the floor. She was nearly there when a large body crashed into her.

The impact sent her reeling. Rough hands yanked the notebook and envelope from her grasp. Sara tried to fight, but her feet tangled and she went down, landing hard on her backside. Half expecting an attack, she scrambled to her feet. Disoriented, she lunged in the general direction of the door only to hear it slam.

Two steps and her hand closed over the knob. Panicked breaths rushing in and out, she twisted it and yanked. But the door refused to open.