Stealth Moves (16 page)

Horror crept over Stealth. “How many times have you taken control?”

A few. You caught me at it once.

“When you killed the girl.” Stealth’s voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Why won’t you listen to Stealth?”

You give me orders. You make me do all the dirty work, and then you send me away. I’m sick of it!

“Couldn’t help growing up,” Stealth muttered, “learning patience, caution. You’re still reckless, Brandon. You’ll make a mistake, and they’ll find us. Do you want to go to prison?”

I can’t go to prison; I’m dead. You’d go to prison, and maybe you should because you killed me.

“Give it up! You know it was an accident. You were shouting, right outside school. Telling everyone about about…about…”

Your lame-ass crush on what’s-his-name. So?

“So it was embarrassing. Humiliating. Had to shut you up. Didn’t think about the ice on the sidewalk, didn’t think about traffic, about cars.”

It was a red car. You saw it before you pushed me.

After Brandon’s death, three different shrinks asked if he’d seen the car coming. Stealth told them no, but a flash of red—red as fresh blood—tinged his nightmares.

It’s easy to kill when you call it an accident. Brandon’s laughter echoed all the way to the deepest pit of Stealth’s mind.

Day 9—Sunday evening

Holly couldn’t get the tune out of her head. Singing “Learning to looove yourself is GREA-test LOOOVE of all,” she switched the champagne bottle to her left hand so she could use her room key.

“Duck!” Holly heard from above.

She crouched. Something bounced from deck to terrace. A pen somersaulted a few times and then came to rest at the foot of a planter.

Holly rose to stare at Mike on his balcony. She wagged a finger. “If you don’t like my singing, say something instead of throwing things!”

“Stylus got away from me.” Mike held up his tablet like a grade-schooler at Show-and-Tell. “I set it down, and it rolled.”

“Thanks for the heads up, er, heads
down
.” Holly retrieved the stylus. “I’ll bring it to you.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll come get it.”

“Stay there! You’re the walking wounded—and I owe you one.”

“You do,” Mike agreed. “Bring up some food, too. I’m starving.”

“Yes,
master
.”

“Please,” he added.

Trudging up four flights of steps balancing a champagne bottle and bowl of leftover chicken salad was not the easiest task. She had to climb without using her hands, which shouldn’t have been a problem but was. Mike’s domain had no hall or doorway, just a railing beyond the stairs, so Holly saw him through the French doors. She made her way to the balcony across the impossibly neat space of his huge, open room.

Mike sprawled on a lounge chair, apparently enjoying the last light of the day. He looked up when Holly handed him the bowl. “No fork?” he inquired. Her expression must have said ‘fork-you’ loud and clear. He chuckled. “There’re some plastic ones on top of the fridge.” Waving toward his living area, he added, “Next to the armchair. Fridge looks like an end table.”

Holly found the camouflaged mini-refrigerator. A leather box on its top held plastic utensils. She rolled her eyes.
Nothing tacky in this room—everything Just So.
Returning to Mike, Holly remembered to pluck the stylus from its nest in the tangles above her right ear.

He said, “Um…is there a reason you’re clutching a half-empty champagne bottle?”

Holly gazed through green glass. “It’s not half-empty; it’s half
full
. I’m an optimist.”

“Are you celebrating something—new hairstyle, maybe?”

“Hairstyle?” Frowning, she ran her free hand over her head. The curls had grown to monstrous proportion. “Oh. Right. I call this creation ‘Holly takes a boat ride in the wind.’”

“Awesome. My sister paid real money to get that look one year.”

“She was robbed.” Holly took a seat next to Mike. “Champagne?”

“Mmm, maybe a sip. I’m on antibiotics.”

“Got any glasses?”

“Champagne flutes in the dining room buffet. Paper cups in my bathroom.”

Dining room: three floors down; three floors up.
“Paper cups it is,” Holly decided.

Mike’s immaculate bathroom was ready for its close up on a lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous TV show. Holly found the cups in an alabaster dispenser.

“You still haven’t told me,” Mike said while Holly poured champagne, “what the occasion is.”

“Nothing, really. I couldn’t drink the whole bottle but didn’t want to waste it. I never had champagne before.”

“So why did you buy it?”

“I didn’t. It was part of the package.” Seeing Mike’s confusion, Holly elaborated. “I went on a date—well, not a real date, sort of a friendly-favor thing. Dan Vogel bought a raffle ticket from his sister. He won a picnic at the Esplanade and a Venetian gondola ride on the Charles. Dan didn’t have anyone to go with him, so he asked me.”

Holly lifted her cup. Champagne bubbles tickled her throat. She squelched the impulse to burp. “Only, instead of a blanket on the grass and a fancy hamper, we found a tent, table set with linen and china, candles, waiter in dark jacket. Five-course meal—”

“Sounds like they catered in from the Algonquin,” Mike interjected. “Great food there. We’ll have to go some time.”

Holly recounted the menu, ticking off courses on her fingers. “Pumpkin soup with a dash of maple syrup. Beet-root salad dotted with goat cheese. Seared scallops. Beef Wellington—my mother’s is better, but hey, this was free.
Excellent
Fruits-of-the-Forest pie.”

“And that’s where you got the champagne.”

She shook her head. “Liquor’s not allowed in the park. The bubbly was chilling on the gondola, along with roses, chocolate strawberries—and a violinist!”

“Backlist.” Mike sat forward in his chair. “You said Dan’s
sister
sold him this ticket? He doesn’t have a sister.”

Holly shrugged. “Things change. Maybe his parents split up and one remarried someone with kids.”

Mike sipped his champagne. “Doesn’t sound like Dan to be flying solo. At Sidley, his favorite fashion accessory was a girl on each arm. A player’s always a player.”

Holly set down her cup. “He thinks you’re the player.”

“Me?” Mike’s surprise looked genuine. “In high school, I was the definition of nerd.”

“Oh, I can’t believe that!” Holly scoffed. “You’re a good-looking guy. You’ve got eyes like that actor…the one from the fantasy trilogy.”

“Please tell me you don’t mean the vampire,” Mike muttered.

“No, no. The other trilogy, the one with elves and dwarves and—”

“Not the
elf
!”

Holly laughed at Mike’s alarm. “The hero—the king.”

“You think I look like him?” Mike’s head jerked back.

“I do. I’ve seen him with blondish hair. Yours is lighter, but you’re still a ringer.”

Mike twisted his lip and shifted in his chair. “So, all in all, your date went well.”

It was Holly’s turn to be surprised. “Oh, no. The date was a disaster. Just as we were heading toward the gondola, Dan got a call to go back to the station. I went on the boat ride alone, with the violinist playing ‘On My Own’ from
Les Mis
and then Whitney Houston’s ‘Greatest Love.’” Holly belted out, “I found the grea-a-test love of all inside of meee.”

“Stop!” Mike said. “Let Whitney rest in peace. Noise like that could wake the dead.”

Holly grimaced. “It’s quiet as a tomb around here. Where is everyone?”

“My mother’s staying the night with friends. Liv’s probably in her room. She played with the dog on the terrace for a while. Some girls stopped by with a bunch of dog stuff—”

“
Dog stuff
?” Holly pictured an unsavory bag.

Mike squinted, then rolled his eyes. “I meant dog things—dog items. Toys and such. The girls set up a comfort station on the terrace. See the patch of fake grass? It’s the poop pad.”

Holly peered down. “That thing outside my door is where the dog’s to do his business? Eww. There has to be a better spot.” She stood, ready to confront Liv about pet care when she remembered something more important. “Oh! There’s been a development in the kidnap case. I didn’t tell you.” Re-seating herself, Holly explained, “Dan left because he got a tip from an FBI contact: There’s been a ransom demand. The kidnapper wants money brought to the Common during the concert.”

“Which kid? I mean which parents are supposed to come up with ransom?”

“Kyle Blake’s. He’s still alive. The ransom note was an email with a picture of Kyle holding today’s paper.”

“Glad to hear it. Anything on the missing girl?”

“No, and the one lead Ariel Kelly’s aunt and I thought might be good was a bust. Last Friday,” Holly explained, “while Liv was at Chase’s house, I cruised by the homes of her other friends so I could find her if she ran off again. This strange guy seemed to be doing the same thing. After scrutinizing Tay’s and Maddy’s houses, he went to the café. Ariel’s Aunt Zarah was there, and we both thought the dude was acting suspicious. Zarah’s some kind of Israeli profiler.”

“Mossad?” Mike asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, I had to get Liv, so Zarah agreed to continue the surveillance. I gave her Dan’s card. She watched where the guy went and reported to Dan. Guess what? Our suspect was your wife’s brother, Brent Tinsley.” Holly sighed. “According to Dan, he’s ‘old-line Beacon Hill, lived here all his life, no reason why he shouldn’t walk around the neighborhood or buy food.’ So much for our hot lead.”

“Brent out and about is good news. I always felt sorry for him. His mother wouldn’t let him leave the house after his twin died. Poor kid had no life. Sad.” Mike shook his head. “When their dad split and Karina went to college, Brent must have been really lonely.”

Holly thought about dysfunctional families. She was so glad hers wasn’t among them. “Think I’ll check on Liv.” She drained her cup and crumpled it in her hand. “Thanks for the company, Mike. Want me to pitch the bottle?”

“Sun’s gone. I’m coming in, so I’ll take care of it.” He stood and stretched. “Uh, Holly…”

“Yes?”

“Leave your hair the way it is. Looks nice...like some spirit from an Irish forest.”

“Scottish forest.” Holly winked. “Glasscocks hail from the Highlands.”

Liv came to her door, phone in both hands, thumbs busy texting. She didn’t look up when Holly asked when she wanted to take Teddy for a walk.

“He’s sleeping,” Liv whispered, freeing up a hand long enough to wave toward a royal blue dog bed with the puppy curled inside. “And he doesn’t need exercise. I’ll just take him out to the terrace later.”

“About that…”

“You don’t like where we put the pad?” Liv eyed Holly expectantly.

“I’m thinking another spot might be better.”

“Whatev. Anything else?”

“If you need me during the night, call.”

“I won’t need you. I can take care of myself.” Liv shut the door.

Holly went to her room, moved the dog mat, caught up with her social network, beat an entire level of her game, and then decided she wanted chamomile tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she turned on the TV in the Smallwood family room. The news was running an interview with Portsmouth Chief of Police Warren. Holly sat down.

“I have a preliminary statement,” the chief began, “regarding the body of a juvenile female found yesterday in a county-repossessed building within the City of Portsmouth. The victim has been conclusively identified as Natalie Nicole Porcini, age 16, of Boston. Miss Porcini was reported missing by her family on September 6th.” Chief Warren consulted his notebook. “Date of death is estimated at seven to eight days ago. The remains were moved post-mortem to the location. Cause of death was an intracranial hemorrhage with no signs of impact trauma. In plain language, she died of stroke.”

“Stroke!” one reporter challenged. “How could a girl so young die of stroke?”

“The ME has requested Miss Porcini’s medical history to determine if there were pre-existing conditions.”

“What about other injuries?” another reporter asked.

“There was some inner ear damage. Surrounding tissue was intact.”

“Was she raped?”

Chief Warren glared at the questioner, a woman. “No signs of sexual assault.” He closed his notebook. “Our investigation is ongoing. When we learn more, we’ll let you know.” He strode away from the podium, ignoring reporter entreaties.

Holly switched off the TV. She took the tea she no longer wanted across the moonless terrace, thinking about the girl who died, trying to imagine her alive but seeing only the gruesome corpse. For the first time, she understood why soldiers and cops were haunted by their experiences, things they couldn’t forget. Holly would never forget Natalie Porcini’s horrible, pathetic dead body.

In her sleep, a dark shadow stalked Holly, creeping closer, each ghostly footfall heightening her fear. The Thing wanted her terrified and helpless, but she tensed to fight. So when a splintering crash over her head woke her, adrenaline propelled her straight toward her door, out onto the terrace to confront whatever was waiting on the deck above her room.

Instead of a ghastly specter, she saw Mike, wearing boxer shorts, hitting the deck’s wooden fencing with a fireplace poker and howling, “Damn it! God damn it!”

Day 10—Monday, after midnight

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Holly yelled.

Mike swung the poker to point at the fence’s ravaged lattice. “We had a prowler. I scared him away. He climbed this, broke through with his foot, made it to the brick wall, and took off. I was too slow. Sonuvabitch!” Mike bashed at the fence.

“I’ll go after him,” Holly said before she realized, from terrace level, the brick wall was at least twelve feet high. Wishing she’d let Cameron teach her Parkour, Holly told Mike, “I’ll get my keys, meet you up there, and then—”

“And then nothing.” Mike set the poker against the railing. “He’s gone. Before you can catch up, he’ll be on the next street looking like somebody just heading home from the bar.”

“But how can he leave this block? It’s built like a castle, wall-to-wall houses on all four sides.”