Last Whisper (21 page)

He approached the apartment building from behind, being careful to walk like an innocent man simply trying to hurry out of the rain as he passed the second surveillance car parked behind the apartment house. Suddenly the rain picked up and before the cops could turn on their windshield wipers, Robert quickly darted into the alley running between Brooke’s building and the one next to it.

He sidled closer to the brick structure and walked to where he could look directly up at a third-floor window he knew was Brooke’s. A fire escape crawled up the side of the building, passing within a couple of feet of her window. How easy it would be to pull down the lower section of the ladder, climb up to Brooke’s bedroom window like an aging Romeo, and enter the apartment. If the window was locked, he wasn’t above breaking the glass near the lock to open it. He’d pay for the damage later. Brooke would probably scream when she first saw him. He could tell from the dim light in the bedroom that she was in the living room. He thought he could
even hear music. Something classical. Maybe if she was drinking wine, she’d be calm and not go berserk when she saw him.

Robert’s hands had begun to tremble. He’d always been “the good boy,” the one who followed all the rules, the kid who had never skipped school or even gotten a traffic ticket. Yet here he was planning to climb a fire escape and break into a woman’s apartment. But all he wanted to do was talk to her. Abruptly his father’s face flashed in front of his eyes, a face full of pride and love slowly changing into one of shame, even revulsion, if he discovered his son was homosexual. Yes, Robert would just talk to Brooke. Unless it took more than just talking. . . .

He moved closer to the building, inching closer to the fire escape. He passed the Dumpster, the smell rising up to greet him almost as a warning that he was doing something dark and dirty and foul. Something deep within him told him not to continue, but he couldn’t stop himself. Fear raced through him like it had when he was a little boy and a storm raged outside. But if he didn’t make sure Brooke would keep his secret, he would face another storm—a storm of the soul when he lost his father’s love and respect.

Robert had reached the fire escape. The bottom rung hung about ten feet above the alley to prevent people from climbing up the steps to do exactly what Robert was planning to do. Although he was six foot two, the bottom rung was still far above Robert’s head. He’d played basketball in high school, though. How many times had he jumped up and touched the ten-foot-high rim of the basket? That was over seventeen years ago, but he’d stayed in good shape. He could probably grab that bottom rung, pull down the lower section, and easily climb the ladder.

The rain had picked up. He fumbled with the collar of his designer raincoat Aaron had bought him for his birthday, but rain still crept down his neck, wetting his shirt. His brown hair plastered itself to his forehead, the ends getting into his eyes. He brushed it aside, leaped, and caught the wet rung. Before he could clench his hands, though, he slipped loose.
His feet slid on the slick pavement and he fell, painfully smashing the back of his head about an inch from a puddle. God, how embarrassing, he thought, lying in a wet alley like a drunk. He should just forget this ridiculous plan and go home. But Brooke had gone to his home and talked to his
father
. What would she do next? Tell him everything? Robert had to see her tonight, and this seemed to be the only way.

Robert opened his eyes against the pouring rain, tried to stand up, and lost his footing again on the slick pavement, this time landing on his left side. With a groan, he turned his head, and for a heart-stopping moment he saw a face looming over him. Then it hit him—a piercing, excruciating jab in his back. He made a choking sound, the air pushed out of his mouth by the torturous pain ripping through him. He reached around to the right side of his mid-back. For an instant he felt something metal and sharp-edged before it vanished. “What?” he muttered as pain ripped through him again. This time he tried to scream, but the sound was weak and mewling. Blinking furiously against the rain, once again he saw a form above him, but only for an instant.

Vaguely he thought he should get up, fight off his attacker, run if he had to, but the pain was too great for him to fight and he could feel blood gushing from his back. My kidneys, he thought vaguely. Someone stabbed me in the kidneys.

He felt rather than saw a person kneel beside him, place two hands on his midsection, and turn him over. His face landed in a puddle, water coming to the tops of his ears. He closed his eyes tightly, but he could do nothing about the filthy water running into his ears and creeping beneath his eyelids. He tried to lift his arms, to get his hands on the pavement so he could push up and attempt to rise, but he just didn’t have the energy. From somewhere deep in his brain a fact from a high school physiology class flashed into his memory: The kidneys receive a quarter of cardiac output. One-fourth of the blood that flowed through him every time his heart thumped went straight to his kidneys. And now, straight
out
of his body. Blood that he needed. Blood he would die without.

This thought registered with him just as another unbearable pain seared his back. Someone sure wants to make sure I never leave this alley, he thought with one last flash of macabre humor.

Miraculously, he managed to lift his head out of the puddle so he could draw a gasping breath. Blinking away the tears and the rain, he saw a figure beside him. The face, a pale blur, was only inches from his. Then Robert saw the right arm rise, stiffening for another vicious strike with a glinting metal blade. “Please, not again,” Robert muttered at the black holes masquerading as eyes that seemed to burn in the white blur of a face. “I’m already dead.”

Warm air flowed over Brooke’s face. A long, stiff hair brushed across her upper lip. A slightly damp nose caressed her cheek. Keeping her eyes closed, she murmured, “That has to be Antonio Banderas or”—she opened her eyes—“Elise!”

The blond dog trampled joyfully over the bed, darting up to give Brooke a lick on the nose. Brooke hugged her, feeling the dog’s heart beating strongly beneath her ribs, and ran her hands over Elise’s soft, short hair. She’d had Elise for only two years, but now she couldn’t imagine life without the energetic, happy little creature. Elise was always ecstatic to see her, always ready to snuggle when Brooke was feeling down, always eager to go for a walk or a run when Brooke got out the leash, and had a habit of rolling into a ball on the couch beside her mistress and snoring loudly through some of Brooke’s favorite late-night movies.

“I’ll bet you need a trip outside,” Brooke said. “Give me ten minutes.”

They emerged from the back door of the apartment building to see the morning surveillance shift. Brooke wore a navy hooded knit jacket and stretch pants with silver stripes down the sides so she and Elise could take a short run in the clear morning air. Elise pulled on her leash until they reached her favorite bathroom stop. Afterward, Brook ambled down the road behind the apartment building, hearing the surveillance cruiser starting up to follow them. When they reached the end of the building, Elise turned away from the road and pulled toward the alley. “Wrong way, girl,” Brooke said. “There’s nothing down there except the smelly old Dumpster.”

Usually Elise was completely obedient on the leash, but today she kept pulling toward the alley. Brooke gave the leash a gentle tug, but Elise jerked back, determined to investigate the alley. “Oh, all right,” Brooke sighed. “Every day you go where I want. Today I’ll let you take control.”

Elise trotted down the alley, her curled tail in the air, daintily stepping around puddles with her slender paws and sailing over rain-soaked boxes with her sleek body. She sniffed various “interesting” objects, but without her usual concentration. Brooke had the strange feeling that Elise was on a mission, searching for one particular smell that intrigued her more than any others, and she wasn’t going to be stopped until she found it.

Puddles from last night’s rain reflected the clear, cloud-studded sky. Elise pulled closer to the Dumpster. Brooke was always amazed by how many people just threw refuse
at
the Dumpster instead of
in
it. The heavy metal container sat like an ancient gray behemoth surrounded by Styrofoam cups, dark trash bags torn by rats and spilling garbage, beer cans, a shattered wine bottle, and a fast-food hamburger container. Flies buzzed above and around the Dumpster.

“Come on, Elise,” Brooke said. “Thank goodness they empty this thing tomorrow, because it is getting
rank
.”

Elise continued to pull stubbornly forward, finally stopping at a pile of wet, mud-splattered clothing. The clothes lay over a mound. Elise nosed around the heap, then began to whine. The dog rarely whined unless she was really frightened
or upset. Brooke took a couple of steps closer to the dirty heap of clothes. She saw what looked like a trench coat with a large brownish-red stain on the back. Farther down she saw a shoe—a shoe with a foot inside.

“Elise, get back!” she yelled, feeling as if her blood had turned to ice. “Back!”

But as Brooke jerked at the leash, dragging Elise away, the dog slipped out of her collar and returned to the body. She whined again and then howled—a long, mournful sound that sent shivers through Brooke. The dog pawed determinedly at the body, and finally took a piece of the trench coat between her teeth and pulled hard. To Brooke’s horror, the corpse slowly rolled over and Robert Eads’s beautiful blank eyes stared up at the azure sky.

Brooke would have expected herself to scream for all she was worth. Instead, she stood still and stared at Robert and the dog, whose howling had turned into whining. Robert’s affection for Elise was tentative because he was frightened of most dogs, but Elise was so gentle and quiet around him, he hadn’t seemed afraid of her. He’d always patted her on the head and called her “pretty girl.” He would never call her that again, Brooke thought.

Feeling as if she were in a dream, Brooke walked to the back of the alley, strode to the police cruiser, and said calmly, “There’s a dead man beside the Dumpster. It’s Robert Eads.” Then she staggered. She would have fallen if one of the cops hadn’t jumped out of the car and grabbed her.

Brooke was hardly aware of the sudden flurry of activity. Police spoke urgently on radios, more police cars arrived, and someone blocked off the alley. While Brooke sat on the curb, one of the policemen slipped Elise’s collar and leash back on and brought her to Brooke. The two of them sat
huddled together beside a police cruiser when a balding man arrived and bent over her. “Hello, Miss Yeager. I’m Hal Myers, Sam Lockhart’s friend.” He smiled at her with his long hound-dog face and slightly crooked nose. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Sam.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Brooke returned without a trace of humor. “Look for a murder and you’ll find Brooke Yeager nearby.”

“He’s said only good things about you,” Myers said kindly. “What makes you think Robert Eads was murdered?”

“What?” Brooke looked at him blankly. “You mean he wasn’t?”

“I didn’t say that. I just want to know what made
you
think he was.”

“When we found him—Elise and I—he was lying facedown. There was blood all over the back of his trench coat and holes in it. Holes like stab wounds. He
was
stabbed, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Brooke closed her eyes. “I hope the first . . .”

“You hope the first?”

“I hope the first stab wound killed him. I mean, I hope he wasn’t alive, feeling the pain of being stabbed over and over.” She placed a hand on her abdomen. “I’m afraid I’m feeling nauseated.”

“It’s understandable. Don’t be shy about throwing up.”

Brooke bent her head down, drawing deep breaths, swallowing the hot water running into her mouth. Elise drew near to her, and she put her arm around the dog, squeezing her tightly. Finally, Brooke raised her head and opened her eyes. “I think I’m okay, now. At least as far as being sick, that is.”

Myers smiled again. He had jowls and deep nasal-labial folds. His face looked comfortable, like an old piece of furniture, but his dark eyes were sharp as diamonds. “Good. But if you feel like—”

“I’m fine. Really.” Brooke wondered what made her so determined to convince Hal Myers she felt fine when she didn’t feel fine at all. She felt sick—sick physically, sick emotionally.

“Okay. Miss Yeager, did you touch or move the body?”

“
I
didn’t. Elise did. The dog. She led me down the alley straight for Robert. We used to date, so Elise knew his scent. When we reached him, all I saw was the trench coat and a shoe. I tried to pull Elise away, but she seemed particularly strong and pawed at him, even took hold of his coat in her teeth, until she turned over . . . the body. I saw it was Robert.”

“Did you see him last night?”

“No.”

“Where were you last night?”

Brooke knew it was a routine question, but she stiffened anyway. “I was in my apartment. Alone.”

“Did he come to the door?”

“No.”

“You said the two of you used to go out.”

“Yes. We broke things off about a month ago. He’s been calling me a lot, though, even following me.”

“So
you
broke up with
him
, but he wanted you back?”

Brooke hesitated. “I ended our relationship, but he didn’t want me back.”

“It sounds like he did.”

“I know, but he didn’t.”

“Did you end it because you were seeing someone else?”

“No. Things . . . just weren’t working out.” It would have been so easy to tell this gentle-voiced man the truth, but Brooke knew how important it was to Robert that his homosexuality be kept secret. She’d been surprised when she found out the truth, but not horrified. She hadn’t even been hurt. She’d only been angry that he’d used her to cover up the truth, a truth she didn’t want to betray even now, even though it couldn’t hurt him anymore. “Our breaking up was a mutual decision,” she said, surprised that she’d lied and immediately regretting it.