C. Lawrence: Silent Stalker

“Anyone in the cast sweet on the vic-uh, Ms. Lewis?” the sergeant said.

Danny looked away. “Not really.”

“That’s not what I heard,” said McKinney. “I heard your brother Ryan asked her out.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess he did.”

“Did she go out with him?”

“I don’t really know. My brother and I aren’t joined at the hip.”

“I thought twins shared everything.”

“That is a misconception promulgated by the mainstream media.”

Sergeant McKinney smiled and scribbled something in his notebook. “You got some ten-dollar words there.”

Danny Atkins looked down at his hands. “Look, Detective-”

“Sergeant.”

“Sergeant. Things have been kind of rough since our mother died, and my brother hasn’t been all that talkative lately.”

“When was that?” Lee asked.

“A couple of weeks ago, right before we began rehearsals.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” McKinney. “You’re the stage manager for this group?”

“Yes-why?”

“You’d have access to everyone’s address.”

“Sergeant, there’s a cast contact list-we all have that information.” Danny removed his glasses and wiped the sweat from the frames. “Is this going to go much longer?”

“Just one more question,” said McKinney. “If you had to put odds on who in this company might want to kill Mindy Lewis, who would it be?”

Danny replaced his glasses and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I’m not a betting man.”

“That’s interesting,” Lee said after Danny had left.

“Earlier he claimed that he and Ryan did everything together, but just now he went out of his way to avoid giving that impression.”

McKinney nodded. “Wonder what he’s trying to hide?”

Next up was Fred Wilson, the slightly shorter of the Wilson twins. He seemed amiable enough, even eager to help, as he settled his long form on the metal folding chair opposite Sergeant McKinney. Though Wilson was well over six feet, Lee figured McKinney was a good four inches taller.

“Now then, Mr. Wilson, is there anything you want to tell me?” asked the sergeant.

“Uh, no-only that we all liked Mindy. At least, I think everyone did.”

“Maybe one of you liked her enough to kill her.”

Wilson looked confused by the remark. “I don’t get it.”

McKinney leaned in closer. “Maybe you had a thing for Mindy?”

Fred looked horrified. “No! I have a girlfriend. I would never-”

“Anyone who can confirm that?”

“My brother-anyone who knows me.” As he spoke, he twisted a signet ring embossed with the theatrical comedy mask.

“Nice ring,” McKinney remarked. “Where’d you get it?”

“It was a gift from our mother. My brother has one of the tragic mask.”

“Ever trade rings?” McKinney asked.

“Not really. Why?”

“It would be pretty easy for you to pose as one another, confuse people about which one is which.”

Fred cocked his head to one side. “Why would we want to do that?”

Obviously, the sergeant knew about the mask found on Mindy’s body. That was the kind of detail that might not be released to the public, so Lee said nothing.

“Don’t twins do that-switch places just for fun sometimes?” McKinney asked.

“I think that happens more often in the movies,” Fred replied. “Though once Danny and Ryan switched places to see if anyone would notice.”

“Did they? Notice, I mean?”

“Not at first. Ryan wore Danny’s glasses to rehearsal, and everyone thought he was his brother. It’s especially hard when the other twin isn’t around. Even I was fooled for a while.”

“What gave it away?”

“I’m not sure… different mannerisms, and their voices aren’t quite the same, I guess.”

Sergeant McKinney made a note in his notebook, which appeared to make Fred nervous-Lee noticed he wiped his palms on his pants a couple of times.

The interviews went on the rest of the afternoon. They didn’t seem to produce much useful information, but you could never tell. Butts and McKinney went back to the precinct together, while Lee headed home.

Back at his apartment, he locked the door behind him and tossed his mail on the kitchen counter. He reached for the bottle of Glenkinchie and was about to pour a glass when an envelope caught his eye. It was thin and square, with blue and red stripes on the edges-international airmail. The return address was 37 rue Leopold Robert, Paris.

Intrigued, he tore it open. It was handwritten in light blue ink, the script firm, simple yet graceful. He read it standing at the kitchen counter.

Cher Monsieur Campbell,

I am very hoping that you may forgive me for writing to you and that you will respond. I don’t know how much of me you know, but my name is Chloe Soigne. I imagine if you do know of me you have nothing but bad thoughts, and for that I do not blame you. I would feel no different in your place. I do love Duncan Campbell, but that is no excuse for my actions so many years ago. Perhaps I am an evil woman, but if so, I am being punished for my sins, for I am now dying.

I tell you this not because I hope for sympathy but because I wish before I die to know that Duncan has made contact with his children. He does not expect you to forgive him or want to see him again, but I am hoping you may perhaps forgive him in time. I have seen over the years how the decision to leave has gnawed away at him, and left him no peace. But he is too proud to admit it, and so I have watched him suffer these many years, knowing how desperately he wanted to see his children. He would never speak of this with me, but I knew it all the same.

I managed to find your address but not your sister’s, so I am writing to you, and very much hope that you will show this letter to her. Perhaps she will find in her heart the compassion for your father, if you do not. Sometimes women have a more tender regard for the sins of others.

Very truly yours, Chloe Soigne

Lee stood with the letter in his hand, anger flooding his stomach like hot acid. So this was the woman his father had left his mother for, that day he walked out on the entire family, when Lee was only nine years old.

The letter came as a complete shock. He had an impulse to crush it, to tear it into bits, but he took a deep breath and slid it back in the envelope. He reached for the scotch and poured himself a double, neat, draining it in one swallow.

What nerve this woman had, writing to him on his father’s behalf! Didn’t she realize how much Lee loathed Duncan Campbell, how many times he had wished him dead? What made her think he would give a damn about the man who had come close to ruining the lives of everyone Lee cared about most?

He refilled the glass and went into the living room, heading straight for the piano.

The Well-Tempered Clavier was open on the rack, but he needed something loud and fast and angry, so he took out a book of Chopin preludes and banged away at the G minor Prelude, with its pounding descending bass line. Then he played a couple of blues tunes gospel-style, lingering on the dissonance created by the simultaneous major and minor thirds. Finally he turned to Bach, who always put him in a calmer mood. After an hour at the keyboard, he felt better. He rose from the piano bench and stood at the front window, gazing out at the Ukrainian church across the street. The building was dark, its round stained-glass window illuminated only by reflected light from streetlamps. A light snow had begun to fall, muting the sound of passing cars, creating a halo around the streetlights, softening their glare to a hazy yellow glow.

He thought about the power of words to disturb and frighten. Of course they could also comfort and reassure, but the last two letters he had seen were disturbing. He knew Chloe hadn’t meant to upset him with her letter, but she must have realized that it would. As for the killer who was presumably stalking Sara Wittier now, the very brevity of his message was part of its chilling effect. You’re next.