Last Whisper (7 page)

“Oh my God!” Stacy exploded.

“It just tore the skin, but I guess scalp wounds bleed a lot,” Brooke said, wincing at Stacy’s loud voice. “It’s nothing like what happened to Mia.”

Brooke abruptly began to shudder and Stacy put her arms around her again. “I never met Mia, but I know you liked her.”

“Someone shot her. Over and over and over,” Brooke said flatly. “I just don’t know
why
.”

Stacy looked at Vincent. Clearly, she was asking if they should tell Brooke about the escape of Zachary Tavell. Vincent was surprised that Stacy had even considered his opinion in the matter. He shook his head
no
. After what Brooke had just been through, he thought the last thing she needed to hear was that the man who had murdered her mother was on the loose. She might go into hysterics, and no one, least of all him, needed that right now. Of course, Brooke had to hear about Tavell soon, but perhaps he’d ask the doctor to give her a mild tranquilizer first.

“I’ll be right back,” Vincent mumbled, and slipped out of the examining room door, but not before hearing Stacy ask, “Has he been nice to you or a pain in the ass?” He forced himself not to stop and listen to Brooke’s answer.

Forty-five minutes later, Brooke had dressed again in her bloody suit (“If I’d known, I could have brought some clean clothes from home,” Stacy had said), and the three of them traveled through the night to Brooke’s apartment building. Vincent and Stacy helped Brooke up to Apartment 312 and Stacy found Brooke’s key in her purse.

They entered a small but neat living room, decorated in cream and saffron yellow with an occasional splash of hibiscus pink. On one wall hung a beautifully framed excellent Degas print, and Vincent noted a wall lined with bookcases, all bulging with hardcovers and paperbacks. His opinion of Brooke rose a bit. She was obviously an avid reader like himself.

A blond dog ran toward them, a slender-boned mixed-breed, about forty pounds, Vincent guessed, and shy. Brooke bent to cuddle her. The dog joyfully licked Brooke’s nose, then looked at Vincent with trepidation in her sherry brown eyes. “This is Elise,” Brooke explained, kissing the top of the dog’s head and rubbing her floppy ears. “I got her at the pound when she was only about six weeks old. I named her for Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise.’ It’s my grandmother’s favorite song.”

“I like that,” Vincent said. “I’m surprised you’re allowed to have a dog in an apartment, though.”

“I pay extra.” Brooke fondled the dog some more. “Plus she’s house-trained. And
very
quiet.”

At that moment, Elise let out a sharp bark. “Shhhh,” Brooke said. “I know my suit smells strange, but I’ll change in a minute.” Her voice shook. “Actually, I’ll get
rid
of the suit—”

Bark. Bark.
BARK
!

“Good heavens, what’s wrong with you?” Brooke said, holding Elise’s slim face in her hands and looking into her eyes. “You
never
make this much noise!”

“Maybe she senses that you’re upset,” Vincent said. The doctor had agreed to a Valium, and after he’d given it to Brooke, Vincent and Stacy waited about thirty minutes until it began to take effect, then told Brooke as gently as they could about Zach Tavell’s escape from prison. Brooke had taken the news calmly—the calm a result of the tranquilizer or shock, Vincent couldn’t tell—but she wasn’t acting agitated now. Of course, dogs could sense tension in their owners that humans couldn’t. They could smell heightened adrenaline. Maybe Elise was more aware of Brooke’s true state of being than
either Vincent or Stacy. The dog quivered, then ran over to the door and sniffed at a sheet of paper Vincent hadn’t noticed when they entered.

Stacy walked to the door and Elise stood back while Stacy stooped and picked up a folded sheet of white paper.

“What is it?” Brooke asked.

“It’s—” Stacy read it silently, then exclaimed, “God, I shouldn’t have just picked it up! Jay has taught me better police technique than this. Is there a tissue handy?”

“What
is
it?” Brooke demanded. She stood and walked to Stacy’s side, yanking the paper out of her hand. Brooke went motionless, simply staring at the note for a moment as her pale face turned even paler. Finally, she read aloud:

“ ‘Until We Meet Again.’ ”

Brooke looked up with frightened violet-blue eyes. “He was
here
.”

“
Someone
was here.” Vincent felt his own stomach tightening at the thought that the man who had slaughtered a young woman just a few hours earlier had already invaded Brooke’s home, the man prison officials said had almost completely stopped talking and started communicating in notes. He knew, though, his keeping a calm tone might prevent Brooke from spiraling into a full-blown panic attack. “The note could have been left by that guy you used to date. Robert, wasn’t it?”

“Is that Robert’s handwriting?” Stacy asked.

“It’s printed,” Brooke pointed out. “Printed in big, sloppy letters.”

Stacy frowned. “How long has it been since you’ve seen Robert?”

“Actually
seen
him? Almost three weeks. But he’s left
dozens of messages on my answering machine and two days ago he sent flowers to my office.”

“You’re staying with us tonight,” Stacy announced to Brooke. “This is Jay’s poker night, but he’ll be home soon. You’ll feel perfectly safe with a police detective in the apartment.”

“You’re allergic to dogs,” Brooke said, looking at Elise.

“So the dog will stay here.”

Brooke shook her head. “And howl all night for me? I don’t think so.”

Stacy threw the dog an offhanded look. “She’ll settle down after a while.”

“I want Elise with me tonight,” Brooke said in a loud, firm voice. “That settles the matter.”

Stacy looked surprised. “Well, you’re very bossy tonight.”

“And you’re bossy all the time,” Brooke fired back.

With what Vincent had observed to be one of her typical mood swings, Stacy suddenly started laughing. “You’re right. I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Well, you did!” Brooke burst out. “And I don’t see what’s so funny!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Vincent said, feeling as if his neck had turned to concrete and his head might burst before this horrible evening ever ended. “I agree that Brooke doesn’t need to be alone tonight, even though the police are going to provide surveillance. Dad and I are dog lovers. Brooke and Elise can stay at the house with us.” Stacy gave him a hard look. “We have four bedrooms. She doesn’t have to share a bed with Dad or me and I assure you, Stacy, neither one of us is a rapist. Does that suit everyone?”

“No, it does not!” Stacy flared. “The idea of Brooke spending the night with
two
strange men—”

“We’re not strange,” Vincent said innocently.

“You
know
what I mean. Brooke doesn’t know you. She’d be
terribly
uncomfortable.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Brooke said with unexpected calm. “I went to that house earlier because it represented security to
me. It still does.” She threw an unconvincingly warm smile at Stacy. “I know you’re trying to look out for me, but this is really the best solution, at least for tonight.”

“Good!” Vincent said, not sure if he’d offered the invitation to annoy Stacy or because he had some puzzling concern for Brooke. After all, Brooke Yeager was still an unknown quantity as far as he was concerned. Stacy opened her mouth to protest, but Vincent was determined not to waver. “Look, Stacy, we’ll have the surveillance moved to our house. There Brooke will have police on the outside of a house, not a big apartment building, and two men will be inside, one of them a former cop.”

Stacy sighed, then looked resigned. “Okay, kiddo,” she said to Brooke. “I guess you should do what makes
you
comfortable, not what makes
me
comfortable, and I’ll stop giving orders.”

“Is that possible for you?” Vincent sniped.

Before Stacy could snap back an answer, someone tapped on the apartment door. Stacy, Brooke, and Vincent looked at one another blankly, as if bewildered by some strange phenomenon, until a man called out, “Hey, it’s me. Harry. You got some trouble in there?”

Brooke and Stacy let out pent-up breath. “Harry Dormer,” Stacy said to Vincent. “He’s the combination building superintendent and handyman.”

She opened the door and Harry strode in, bright yellow polo shirt stretched tightly across his fifty-inch gut, which hung over the waistband of baggy jeans. He wore filthy running shoes, a baseball cap atop gray-brown hair, and some kind of locket on a silver chain. Vincent peered closer. The locket was clear plastic and contained a gigantic black widow spider, hopefully fake. A guy had to be confident to wear that kind of jewelry, Vincent thought, trying not to grin.

“Mrs. Kelso saw you folks comin’ in the lobby and said Brooke, Miss Yeager, looked kinda shook up and—” Harry’s small, pale blue eyes widened. “Holy shit, Brooke, is that
blood
all over your suit?”

“Subtle, Harry,” Stacy said.

“Well, jeez, she looks like she got beat half to death, except her face isn’t hurt. Pretty as ever. That’s a relief.”

“Better for her to have a broken back than a cut on her pretty face, right, Harry?” Stacy asked acidly.

Harry feigned amazement. “She has a broken back?”

“I was in an accident,” Brooke interrupted so smoothly that Vincent was slightly astonished. She sounded completely composed, almost casual. “This isn’t my blood. It’s someone else’s, but I’d rather not discuss the details right now.”

“Did somebody get killed?” Harry asked avidly.

“Watch the news tonight,” Stacy quickly intervened.

“So somebody
did
get killed! Well, gosh, that’s awful.” Harry looked excited, not the least bit concerned. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“I appreciate that,” Brooke said evenly. “I’m fine. But I’ll be spending the night somewhere else, and I need to get a few things together.” She gave him a slightly lopsided smile. “I hope you’ll excuse me . . .”—Vincent could see the search for a name behind her eyes—“. . . Mr. Dormer,” she finally managed, “but I’m in a hurry.”

“Mr. Dormer!” Harry boomed. “Since when do you call me Mr. Dormer? I can take a hint, but—”

Stacy put a slim, strong hand on his shoulder. “One question before you leave. Was Robert here a while ago? Robert Eads?”

“Brooke’s guy that can’t take the brush-off? Not that I saw, but I don’t stand around the lobby all day,” Harry said virtuously. “I have
lots
of work to do.”

“I know, and you do it very well,” Stacy returned. Everyone in the room except Harry could see that she was just playing up to him for information. “Please think, Harry. This is important. Did you see anyone unusual? Not a tenant? A man who came up here?”

“No. Why?”

“It’s not important.”

“Then why do you keep asking me about it?” Harry peered around the room as if he expected someone to jump
out from behind a drape. “You saying someone’s been up here that shouldn’t be?”

“We don’t know. Thanks for the information,” Stacy said quickly, and pushed him into the hall. “Good night, Harry. See you tomorrow.” She closed the door behind him.

“I didn’t know who he was at first,” Brooke said desolately.

“It would have been better if he could have stayed a blank spot permanently,” Stacy said dryly, then looked at Vincent. “Harry probably saw more than he’s saying. He’s acting like the overworked superintendent who never hangs around the lobby gossiping or just looking over all the guests and visitors. But Jay is the policeman, the one who needs to be asking Harry these questions, not me. He’s intimidated by Jay. Harry doesn’t act like a smart aleck with him.”

Stacy continued talking to Vincent as if they were old friends, gossiping. “Harry is just sickening. He looks at every woman under fifty like he can see right through her clothes. He’s especially bad about eyeing Brooke and me from head to toe, even when his wife is around. Besides, I think there’s something sneaky about him.”

“Such as?” Vincent asked.

“He lurks. Or he gives the impression of lurking. I sound paranoid, but Jay has noticed it, too. And his wife Eunice is a real piece of work. Always playing off sick.”

“She
is
sick,” Brooke said. “Her diabetes is serious and her legs swell and she has migraines.”

“Honestly, you are such a soft touch for a sad story, Brooke.” Stacy shook her head. “Harry and Eunice are probably harmless, but I’ve always felt you need to keep an eye on them.”

“Which you do,” Brooke said. “I think Harry’s a little scared of you.”

“Good.” Stacy smiled. “Okay, you sit down, Brooke, and I’ll pack up a few things for you to take tonight, although I still think I should just stay here with you—”

“Stacy,” Brooke said warningly.

“Right. No more orders. Where’s your overnight bag?”

“On the top shelf of the bedroom closet.”

“Where I probably can’t reach it.”

Vincent headed toward what he thought was the bedroom. “I’ll get it. You’re tall, Stacy, but I have a few inches on you.”

“It’s tan with brown trim,” Brooke called. “More like a giant tote bag than a suitcase.” She looked at Stacy. “How could I remember that so clearly, but not Harry’s name?”

“Memory is a funny thing, and you’ve been through a hell of a night. Don’t worry about it,” Stacy said, giving Brooke a pat on the arm.

Within half an hour, Brooke had packed the bag, attached a leash to Elise’s collar, and reassured Stacy for the fifth time that the Lockhart house was where she really wanted to stay for the night. Tomorrow night, she would probably make other arrangements. Stacy walked the three of them to a cab and gave Brooke a quick kiss on the cheek. “If you get lonely or scared, call me. Don’t worry about waking up Jay. He could sleep through an earthquake.”

“Thanks, Stacy,” Brooke said with genuine warmth. “I’ll call you before noon tomorrow.”

Vincent and Brooke said little in the taxi on the way to the Lockhart house. Brooke still felt stunned by what had happened, and Vincent couldn’t think of one comforting thing to say in this situation. He had already called Sam to let him know that Brooke would be staying with them, and Sam greeted them at the front door wearing striped pajamas and a plaid robe turned inside out.