Читать книгу Incriminating Evidence - Amanda Stevens - Страница 10

Nick turned away from the railing, anxious to have a look through the newspaper clippings, but the sight of his uncle Emmett lurking in the hallway stopped him cold. He hadn’t expected to see anyone on the second floor. Since his father and uncle retired, Nick mostly had that area of the building to himself, although Emmett still retained his office and he almost always attended the weekly briefings.

He’d made a point of telling Nick not to expect him until the end of the week, but there he stood looking pleased with himself that he’d caught his nephew off guard. Emmett LaSalle was nothing if not competitive. He took great pride in one-upping the younger detectives in the agency.

“You’re awfully jumpy,” he observed.

“I tend to get that way when someone sneaks up behind me,” Nick countered. “What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t expect to see you until Friday.”

“Change of plans.” Emmett nodded toward the long row of windows in the lobby where rain still pelted the glass. “Can’t take the boat down the coast in this weather.”

“Fish bite best in the rain,” Nick said. “Or so I hear.”

“Rain is one thing, but a monsoon is something else. I may be crazy but I’m not stupid.”

Like Nick’s dad, Emmett LaSalle was a handsome man, tall and lanky with an easy grin. They were fraternal twins with physical similarities, but their personalities were like night and day. Emmett had always been a little on the slippery side whereas Raymond LaSalle was about as straight an arrow as one could hope to find. To Nick, his uncle looked as if he’d stepped from the pages of a noir detective novel. No matter the season or trend, he favored pleated slacks and fitted knit shirts topped with a weathered fedora. He claimed he’d given up gambling years ago, but Nick had his doubts. The detective agency had been a lucrative investment for the LaSalle brothers, and both Emmett and Raymond enjoyed fully funded retirements. But Nick couldn’t help questioning some of his uncle’s recent purchases, like the forty-foot fishing boat he slyly called The Shamus.

Emmett leaned both forearms against the railing and called down a greeting to Jackie, who had glanced up when she heard their voices. As always, her gaze lingered on Emmett before she turned back to her work. She’d had a thing for him for as long as Nick could remember. Everyone at the agency knew it but pretended not to. Nick sometimes wondered if they’d had a romantic relationship in their younger days. Maybe that explained why she’d stubbornly carried a torch through both of Emmett’s marriages. Maybe she was waiting for him to wake up one day and realize the love of his life had been right in front of him all along.

Emmett gave him a sidelong glance. “The woman that just left. New client?”

“She could be. I’m looking into something for her. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Quite a looker, from what I could see. Way out of your league, though.”

Nick was used to his uncle’s ribbing. He gave a careless shrug. “Then I guess it’s a good thing she’s a client and not a date.”

Emmett grinned, displaying a slight overbite that gave him a boyish air despite the silver at his temples. “My first wife was a client.”

“And look how that turned out.”

“Everything was fine until she got nosy.”

“Yes, how dare she take offense to all those clandestine trips to Vegas,” Nick said dryly.

Emmett’s expression sobered. “What did you say her name was?” He stared down at Jackie until she glanced back up at him. Something flared between them. Not attraction or even affection, but the silent communication of an old and complicated liaison.

Nick paused at the abrupt change of subject. “You mean the client? Her name is Dr. Catherine March.”

“Doctor, huh?”

“She’s a forensic anthropologist.”

Emmett repeated her name with a frown. “Has she been in before? I swear I know her from someplace.”

“Maybe you recognize her from her work with the police department. An article ran in the paper yesterday about her efforts to help the county coroner’s office identify the victims in the Delmar Gainey case.”

Something flashed across his uncle’s face, an emotion gone so quickly Nick wondered if he’d seen it all.

When Emmett didn’t respond, Nick said, “Surely you’ve heard about the Gainey case. Human remains found in an abandoned house? You’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard all the breathless reporting.”

Emmett frowned down into the lobby where Jackie had returned to her work. “Has she been able to identify any of the victims?”

“She’s working up profiles for the coroner.” Nick thought about the enigmatic glint he’d caught in her eyes and the hesitant revelation about a puzzling discrepancy. He shrugged. “But to answer your question, I gather the work is ongoing. She didn’t talk much about it.”

Emmett glanced at him. “That’s not why she came here, then. Good. I’d hate to see you get dragged into that mess. I hear heads are still rolling at police headquarters.”

“I hear the same, but why would you even think that a possibility? Why would she come to me about a police investigation?”

“It was just a thought,” Emmett said. “Wouldn’t be the first time an overzealous consultant tried to go behind a detective’s back. The last thing we need is to step on any CPD toes, especially in a high-profile case like this. If they thought you were trying to undermine an investigation, they could get your license yanked.”

“You don’t need to remind me to proceed with caution when dealing with the Charleston Police Department.” Nick didn’t have to elaborate. His uncle would get his meaning.

Emmett gave a grim nod. “All the more reason to keep your nose clean.”

“My nose has always been clean.” Nick turned to his uncle. “What’s really going on here? You don’t have reason to worry about the Delmar Gainey case, do you?”

“Why would I worry about a dead serial killer?”

Nick searched his uncle’s profile. “Gainey was active while you were still a cop. Didn’t you work some missing-person cases back then? You must have had a theory about all those disappearances. Fourteen women don’t just vanish off the street without someone noticing.”

“Happens all the time. Hookers, addicts, runaways. People live in the shadows for a reason,” Emmett said. “They don’t want to be noticed.”

“You’re saying not a single missing-person report was filed on any of the victims?”

“I’m saying if a report was filed, it would have been investigated like any other complaint.”

“What about Gainey? No red flags?”

“Lived alone and kept to himself. Familiar story, right? From what I understand, he didn’t have so much as an outstanding parking ticket. No one deliberately looked the other way, if that’s what you’re implying, but I’ll be the first to admit, most of our resources were allocated elsewhere at that time.”

“You mean to the Twilight Killer case,” Nick said.

“Orson Lee Finch’s victims were all young women from well-to-do families. They didn’t just disappear from the street. He put their bodies on display. That generated a lot of attention. A lot of heat from the powers-that-be.”

“I’ve heard Dad talk about that case. He was on the task force.”

“Yeah, before the feds took over. Then Raymond and I left the department to open this agency. But you already know that story and, anyway, this is all ancient history. Personally, I’m a little sick of hearing about those old cases. I look forward to the time when Delmar Gainey and Orson Lee Finch fade back into the dustbin of history where they belong.”

“I doubt that’s going to happen anytime soon. Serial killers fascinate people. The fact that two were active in the city at the same time adds a new level of enthrallment.”

“People are nuts,” Emmett muttered.

“No argument there.”

“So, this March woman.”

Another abrupt transition. Nick gave his uncle a wary glance. “What about her?” He felt uneasy but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because his uncle was acting strangely. Showing too much interest in Catherine March while dismissive of the two old cases that had taken the city by storm. If Nick didn’t know better, he would almost believe something had struck a little too close to home for his uncle.

He cast another glance down into the lobby where Jackie pretended to type away on her keyboard. She didn’t look up again, but Nick had no doubt she was listening to their every word. She was good at her job, efficient and loyal to a fault, but at times, she seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere.

“Let’s go into my office,” he said.

Emmett followed him down the hallway, but instead of taking the seat across from Nick’s desk, he walked over to the window to stare down at the street. He folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against the frame, seemingly absorbed in the patter of rain against the glass.

“You wanted to know about Catherine March,” Nick prompted.

Emmett turned. “I like to keep apprised of all our open investigations. Just because Raymond has distanced himself from the business doesn’t mean I will. I still have a vested interest in the reputation and financial well-being of this agency.”

“I know you do. That’s why we have our weekly briefings. But since you asked, she came to see me about her adoption. Her mother died last week and she has reason to believe her birth father is Orson Lee Finch.”

Emmett visibly started. “What?”

Nick nodded. “I had the same reaction.”

His uncle just stared at him for a moment. “That’s why she was here? Damn, Nick. What exactly is she asking you to do?”

“She insists she wants to know the truth about her birth, so my recommendation is that we contact the attorney that handled Finch’s last appeal and try to set up a meeting. If Finch will see us, I’ll press for a DNA test since I no longer have access to any databases.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re asking a man who murdered all those women and is now serving consecutive life sentences for a sample of his DNA? Good luck with that, bud.”

“It’s a long shot,” Nick agreed. “But what’s he got to lose?”

“Are you going to tell him why you want the test?”

“I’ll tell him as much as I have to. Catherine doesn’t want to see him, though. She doesn’t want him to know who she is.”

“Smart woman. And if he insists?”

“I’ll walk away. No deals. Protecting the client’s privacy and safety is paramount.”

Emmett gave him a reproving look. “I think you’re being dangerously naïve. Psychopaths are by nature cunning, and as you just said, Finch has nothing to lose. He’ll do whatever he has to in order to gain the advantage. If he does agree to see you, then you can bet he’ll already have worked out an angle. You won’t even see it coming until it’s too late.”

“I’ll be careful. I’m not exactly a novice at this, you know.”

Emmett turned back to the window. He looked glum as he watched the rain. “If Finch says no to a DNA test, what then?”

“Where we go from there will be up to Catherine. We’ll see how far she wants to push this thing. Money could be a factor. If it was a closed adoption, then it’ll take a lot of digging. A lot of billable hours.”

Emmett hardly seemed to hear him. “What if Finch does turn out to be her biological father? Have you or she given any thought to the consequences? You won’t be able to keep something like that quiet. It’ll get out. It always does. A bombshell like that could be a life changer.”

Nick fiddled with a pen on his desk. He wished he didn’t have such a bad feeling about all this. It wasn’t too late to walk away, but he knew that he wouldn’t. He was hooked already and he told himself Catherine March’s deep brown eyes had nothing whatever to do with his interest.

“I don’t know how well she’s thought this through,” he said. “To be honest, I’m not sure there’s anything to investigate. She found some newspaper clippings hidden in her mother’s closet, along with an old business card from this agency. That and her mother’s mysterious last words are about all we have to go on.”

“Sounds to me like she’s holding out on you. She has to have more evidence or another angle. People save newspaper clippings for any number of reasons, and as to the business card, we used to hand those things out like candy. It’s an understatement to say you don’t have much to go on.”

“The card is significant because Dad’s home number is scribbled on the back,” Nick said. “That’s why she came here. She thinks her mother may once have been a client. Her name was Laura March. Does that ring a bell?”

“Not for me, but you can ask Raymond. Or, better yet, check with Jackie. She never forgets a name or a face.”

Nick nodded. “I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll take a look through the archives, too. Anyway, that’s it. That’s the extent of our conversation. Do you want to hear about our other cases or should we wait until Friday?”

“Save it. I just remembered an errand I need to run.” Emmett moved toward the door. “Don’t forget your grandmother’s birthday party later in the week.”

“I won’t forget.”

“Buy her something nice. You can afford it now that we made you partner.”

“Already taken care of.”

“Nick?” Emmett paused on the threshold and glanced back. “I meant what I said earlier. You need to watch yourself with Finch. With Catherine March, too. Her story doesn’t sit well with me. Might be best to take a pass on this one.”

“Since when do we take a pass on interesting investigations? You and Dad built this agency by taking cases no one else would touch.”

“This one is different,” Emmett said with a frown. “Call it a premonition or a gut feeling, but I think that woman is going to be trouble.”

Nick had had the same presentiment, but he shrugged. “I can look after myself.”

“Yeah. That’s what we all say until we’re in too deep and there’s no turning back.”

“Voice of experience?”

Emmett shrugged. “Voice of wisdom. Take it with a grain of salt.”

As he had earlier, Nick waited until he heard footsteps on the stairs and then he got up and went into the hallway. Instead of moving up to the railing, though, he lingered in the shadows at the top of the stairs as Jackie’s voice rose.

“You said that was all taken care of—”

Emmett’s gaze flicked to the second floor. “So I forgot to order the cake. It’s not the end of the world. Your sister is a baker, right? I know you don’t make all those Christmas cookies yourself. Give her a call. Convince her to help us out.”

Jackie followed his gaze up the stairs as Nick pressed himself deeper into the shadows. Then she said a little too loudly, “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Not the first time I’ve had to pull your bacon out of the fire.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. I always do.”

They spoke for a few more minutes, and then Emmett left by way of the rear exit and Jackie returned to her work. She didn’t glance Nick’s way again, but she knew he was up there. He could tell by the rigid way she held her shoulders and by the overenthusiastic pounding of her fingers on the keyboard.

Whatever Emmett had said to her obviously upset her and Nick was certain it had nothing to do with his grandmother’s birthday cake.

* * *

CATHERINE HAD A hard time falling asleep that night. She lay in the dark listening to the rumble of thunder as she went over the day’s events in her head. She couldn’t blame Nick LaSalle for questioning her frame of mind. The evidence she’d presented of her parentage was sketchy at best, but she could think of no other reason why her mother would have kept those clippings all these years. People often saved newspaper articles about events that were historical or even interesting, but why hide them in a secret compartment if she hadn’t at least suspected the truth?

Rolling to her side, Catherine fixated on the flicker of distant lightning out her window. The wind was picking up and she could hear the patter of rain on the roof. Her landlady was away visiting family and Catherine suddenly felt very alone and isolated, set back from the street as she was. Her apartment was on the second floor, nestled in a thick canopy of oak leaves. Most of the time, she enjoyed the illusion of living in the trees and the peace and quiet of being located off an alleyway rather than a busy street, but tonight the solitude seemed oppressive, the shadowy yard and side street menacing. Who knew what danger prowled the dark?

She shifted to her other side, deliberately turning her back on the window, and fluffed her pillow. Insomnia had been a problem since childhood. Night terrors, too. Catherine had never understood her fear of the dark, but now she had to wonder if long-buried memories lurked somewhere in her subconscious. If she truly was Orson Lee Finch’s daughter, what horrors might she have witnessed as a child?

The notion haunted her, so much so that when she finally drifted off, her sleep was filled with terrible visions of Finch’s deeds. She dreamed of his victims’ screams and of crimson magnolia petals raining down upon her. She awakened in a cold sweat, clinging to the covers as her gaze darted about her bedroom. Once her heart settled, she got up for a glass of water and then stood at her bedroom window peering out into the rainy night. Another image came to her—that of the man who had watched her from a recessed doorway. He had walked off when she called out to him, but Catherine couldn’t suppress the worry that he had been following her, that he might even now be out there with his eyes trained on her bedroom window.

The dark and her nerves played tricks on her vision. She saw him everywhere—inside the back gate, hiding behind the azaleas, perched on her landlady’s back steps. The intermittent lighting revealed the truth. The shadows dissolved into nothingness. No one was out there. She was perfectly safe ensconced as she was behind locked doors and a latched gate.

She went into the bathroom and took a melatonin tablet, determined to salvage what was left of the night. Then, shivering, she crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Turning her mind away from Orson Lee Finch and his victims, she let her thoughts drift back to her meeting with Nick LaSalle.

She remembered him well from their previous encounter. Skeletal remains had been discovered in a wooded park after a heavy rain and Nick had been the detective assigned to the investigation. He’d come to Catherine for help in establishing a biological profile of the victim. Their consultation had been brief, but he’d made an impression. Tall and lean with dark hair and gray eyes the color of a rain cloud.

He’d struck her as professional and methodical with flashes of intuition that had surprised her. She’d been unexpectedly drawn to him and had been disappointed when he hadn’t made further contact. Perhaps the attraction had been one-sided. Or perhaps other things had occupied his time. She vaguely recalled something unpleasant about his departure from the police department. She searched her mind for the details, but drowsiness clouded her memory and anyway, she’d never put much stock in rumors.

She drifted in and out of sleep, aware of her surroundings on some level even as she started to dream. She was in her bedroom, safely tucked beneath the covers. If she opened her eyes, she knew that she would see all her familiar possessions. The refinished dresser that had belonged to her mother, the vase of blue hydrangeas on her nightstand that she’d picked from her landlady’s garden.

And yet the room that flitted at the edge of her consciousness was very different. Tiny and dim with pictures cut from a storybook taped to a drab wall. She could hear a man’s voice, distant and angry, and a woman softly pleading. The sound frightened Catherine. She tried to rouse herself, but sleep tugged her deeper. The tinkle of a music box muted the voices and lulled her senses. She floated on those melancholy notes until her eyes fluttered open and she waited for the music to stop.

Fully awake, she bolted upright in bed. She could still hear a distant tinkle. She tried to convince herself that her landlady had returned. The older woman suffered hearing loss so perhaps she’d turned up the volume on her TV or radio. But the house was too far away and noise had never been a factor in the two years Catherine had lived in the apartment.

She clutched the covers to her chest, paralyzed with fear, though she couldn’t say why exactly. The sound of a music box was hardly threatening, and yet dread clawed at her spine as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Barefoot and trembling, she crossed the bedroom and peered down the narrow hallway toward the living area. Nothing moved. She reached for the light switch but checked herself. She knew her way around the apartment with her eyes closed. If someone had broken in, the dark would give her an advantage.

Retreating back into the bedroom, she grabbed a baseball bat from the closet and then returned to the hallway, easing her way to the front of the apartment where she stood in the dark as the haunting melody washed over her.

The music box wasn’t in her apartment, she realized. The notes drifted through her front door. Inching her way along the wall, she peeled back the curtain to peer out into the wet night. A set of wooden stairs led from the garden up to a tiny covered porch dimly lit by sconces on either side of her front door. An old-fashioned swing hung from a tree limb at the bottom of the steps. The chains squeaked ominously in the breeze, and for a moment, Catherine imagined someone sitting there staring up at her.

No one was there. But someone had just been there. The music box was only now winding down.

Gripping the handle of the bat, Catherine unlocked the dead bolt and pulled back the door.

She didn’t see anything at first, but then her gaze dropped. The music box had been shoved up against the wall, protected from the rain by the porch roof. As the notes faded, the tiny ballerina froze in a suspended pirouette.

Catherine knelt to examine the box even as her gaze scanned the night. Someone had been on her porch moments earlier. They’d wound the spring and left the music box for her to find. But why?

Rising, she walked to the edge of the steps and stared down into the soggy garden.

“I know you’re out there,” she whispered. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The breeze blew through her hair and the rain dampened her nightgown. It almost seemed to Catherine that she could feel the cool caress of her mother’s hand against her cheek. But Laura March hadn’t left the music box on Catherine’s porch nor had she followed her to LaSalle Investigations that afternoon.

Someone very much alive knew who she was. And they were trying to make contact.