Rick Mofina - Into the Dark

In her struggle to have a baby, Claire had undergone various treatments for IUI and IVF involving the rigors of self-injection and the PMS-like hell ride that came with it.

Bring it on, she thought. She’d do whatever it took to have a family.

Except give up.

She set her plate aside and picked up the maternity magazine she’d bought while downtown with Julie. The features about nurseries and clothes and glowing moms and dads pulled Claire back to happy but achingly brief memories of her childhood.

She’s a little girl in a park running into her mother’s open arms, seeing her smile, breathing in her soapy fragrance and feeling the warm love of her embrace. Another flash and she is in a huge hospital chair holding her brand-new baby brother, who felt like an angel. Then the whole family, even her father, happy at the beach in the sun.

Now Claire imagined herself pregnant and having a healthy baby. But when she tried to envision herself and Robert as parents, Claire’s dream stalled over her nagging anxiety about the way he’d been acting lately.

Does he still have feelings for his ex-wife? Am I being unreasonable or silly?

She chided herself. Again she returned to the same excuses: Robert was still rattled by the crash, enduring some post-traumatic stress, all mixed with lay-off rumors and possible fatherhood.

If that’s the case, then why won’t my misgivings go away?

Because in her heart she knew something was just not right. Julie had made a good argument. After Claire had asked Robert about the phone call and his brooding, she was not convinced his answers explained everything.

Claire felt frustrated and needed to talk to someone.

A little therapy for the therapist, she thought, reaching for her phone and dialing the Nevada number for her longtime mentor, Martha Berman. They’d stayed in touch and Martha was up to speed with much of Claire’s life. Maybe the esteemed Dr. Berman could give her some advice, Claire hoped as the line was answered.

“Hello, Martha, it’s Claire in California.”

“Well, hello, Claire.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not at all, dear.”

After pleasantries and small talk, Claire related her worries to the senior psychologist.

“Maybe Robert’s just not ready to be a dad, Claire, or he’s anxious about it.”

“What about the possibility that he may still be in love with his first wife?”

“Always a possibility, but from what you’ve told me you don’t have any proof of that, do you?”

“No, it could be a result of my own anxiety.”

“That’s right. One thing you should consider, given that you are about to bring a baby into your marriage, now is not the time to let any doubts about your relationship fester.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you, Martha.”

“Call me anytime you want to talk.”

After hanging up, Claire went into her home office, turned on her laptop and logged in to their account for their landline and cell phones.

Their phone company’s new online billing service showed charges only for outgoing long-distance calls on the landline, but for their cell phones, it displayed all outgoing and incoming calls, downloads and texts.

Claire studied the information history on charges for calls made after the crash, when she’d overheard Robert’s early morning call. From what she saw, nothing showed that would be a New York call on his cell phone.

Maybe he’d used the landline?

If he did, she wouldn’t see it until the bill arrived.

She continued studying Robert’s call and text history. Plenty of calls and texts to her, a lot from media following the crash, a lot from all over L.A., from his trips made in the San Francisco Bay Area, Seattle and Vancouver, Canada.

As she scrolled through his calls to his office, auto dealer, sports tickets, guy things, she was uncertain what she was looking for. There were toll-free numbers, online banking and credit card calls; and a sprinkling of numbers she didn’t recognize.

This is nuts. I don’t know what I’m doing. I should forget it .

No, she had to resolve this.

Claire picked up her cordless phone and called Julie’s cell phone.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey there, Claire.”

“I want to do it. I want you to look into the phone numbers. He’ll never know, right?”

“He’ll never know.”

“Okay, you’ve already got our numbers, what else do you need?”

“Your carrier, your phone company.”

Claire gave it to Julie.

“Also, what is his ex-wife’s last name?”

Claire thought.

“I don’t know.”

“Where does she live?”

Again, Claire didn’t have any idea.

“Never mind,” Julie said. “It’s okay. Give me some time. I’ve got some urgent stuff I need to take care of, so I’ll get back to you.”

After Claire hung up, she found herself in Robert’s office, thinking. A hint of his cologne mixed with the leathery smell of his office chair. He was neat and orderly. Nothing was out of place. She glanced at the spot on the floor where she’d found the photo of Robert and Cynthia.

He’d obviously put it back.

As she traced her fingers over his mahogany desk it dawned on Claire how little she knew about Robert’s first wife and his marriage.

Los Angeles, California

Mark Harding arrived at the L.A. bureau at 6:00 a.m., hours before any of the other ANPA staffers. He took the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor, swiped his security card at the office door and started working at his desk.

He’d been coming in early ever since writing his feature on the Dark Wind Killer because he was desperate to land another exclusive with a follow-up.

When he broke the story, it had received major play in newspapers across L.A. and Southern California. But beyond that, pickup by news outlets that subscribed to the news service was spotty for print. The Chicago Tribune, The Boston Globe and The Washington Post were some of the big metros that ran the feature, while most online sites carried an abridged version.

Feeding on the angle of the killer’s vow to return, L.A.’s TV and radio news crowd had followed Harding’s five victim profiles. They’d also interviewed the relatives, criminology experts and the lead investigator.

“Is the killer still out there?” one TV reporter had asked Tanner.

“We can’t rule that out, but we think he’s dead,” Tanner had said to the camera. “We invite anyone with information on this case to contact us.”

L.A.’s press kept the story alive for a few days before it faded.

Now, nearly two weeks later, nothing new had surfaced. The story was all but forgotten and Magda had been quick to resume burying him with dull stories of limited interest about the entertainment industry.

It pissed him off.

Harding refused to abandon his story and came in on his own time to secretly work on it, trying everything he could think of. He monitored all social network traffic for any leads. He stayed in touch with the victims’ families, asking if police had privately indicated any breaks in the case. He used the time zone difference to call his cop sources across the country, thinking, hoping some had friends on the task force Tanner was leading. In the early hours he texted Tanner directly, or called him.

“Nothing so far,” Tanner said each time. “I’ll let you know if anything significant surfaces.”

Each morning Harding unfolded a map of L.A. on his desk, then set out all of his notes and the documents that he’d collected in his growing file on the case. Like a miner panning for gold he searched for the nugget of information that would advance the story.