Brian Freeman - The Night Bird

“Would you describe Monica Farr, Brynn Lansing, and Christie Parke that way?”

“Yes. All three were unusually responsive to treatment.”

Frost walked back to her. “How would he know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“How would he know that these women were highly susceptible? It can’t be an accident that he picked them.”

“I have no idea.”

“Is there anyone else who has access to your patient records?”

“No.”

“Not even your assistant?” Frost asked.

“No, she has access to a contact database for appointments, but I keep my patient records myself. And they’re all in writing. I refuse to put psychiatric records online or even in a computer. So he’d have to break into my office to read them, and this building has excellent security.”

Frost thought about it. He went from wall to wall on the lush carpet of Dr. Stein’s treatment room. This room had secrets. Patients talked about their deepest fears here. They shared things that they didn’t share with anyone else in their lives. Only the patients knew. Dr. Stein knew.

And the room knew, too. If the walls could talk, they could spill everything.

He froze.

Maybe the walls could talk.

He stared at Dr. Stein’s phone, which was connected to a portable battery charger. “Could you turn off your phone?”

“What?”

“Please. Just for a minute.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, but she pushed the button to switch off her phone and returned it to her desk.

“Do you typically keep your phone with you during treatment sessions?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s muted, of course, but I have to be reachable in the event of emergencies.”

“Every time I’ve seen you, your phone has been connected to a portable battery charger. Why is that?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been getting terrible battery life. It drives me crazy. I should get a new phone, but I haven’t had time.”

“Have you received any unusual text messages?”

“Unusual?” she asked.

“Letters, numbers, garbage that doesn’t make sense.”

Stein frowned. “Actually, yes, I have received a few messages like that. I just figured it was weird spam. Why?”

“How long has that been happening?”

“About four or five months, I guess. What does it mean?”

“Get your phone checked,” Frost told her. “Or replace it right away. It’s possible someone has hacked it and loaded spyware on the phone. You’d probably never see the footprints, but he could be eavesdropping on your whole life.”

Stein stared at him in horror. “Do you mean someone could be listening to my calls? Seeing all my contacts and e-mails?”

Frost nodded. “Yes, but not just that. Some spyware programs have ambient listening features. They can turn on the microphone of your phone without you knowing it and without leaving any record. He could be right here in the room with your patients during your sessions, Dr. Stein. He could hear everything they tell you. He’d have a roadmap for how to play with their minds.”

Lucy squeezed a heavy garbage bag through the doorway of her apartment. It was filled with a year’s worth of old magazines and leftovers from the refrigerator that had grown a layer of green mold. She’d already split open one bag and stuffed everything into a second bag. She could barely lift it, so the plastic dragged along the ground.

She navigated the bag down the stairwell. The plaster on the walls was cracked, and the stone floors had been worn by decades of foot traffic. The stairwell had an ammonia smell. The front and rear doors were gated, but homeless people still found their way inside, and there were mornings where she had to step over pools of bodily fluids on her way to the street.

Halfway down the stairs, her phone rang, startling her. The garbage bag slipped from her hand and tumbled end over end to the next landing. She swore, hoping it didn’t break again. She grabbed her phone from her pocket. “Hello?”

“Lucy, it’s Frost.”

“Oh, hey.” She stayed calm, but she felt a rush of adrenaline, hearing his voice. She jogged down the steps and reclaimed her bag. “What’s up? You don’t have to cancel, do you?”

“No. Ten o’clock at Alembic. I’ll be there.”

“You better be.”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Frost said.

“I’m great. Why?”

“Did you see anything unusual while you were out?”

“This is San Francisco, Frost. When do you not see something unusual?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” she replied, “and no. I kept looking over my shoulder. Nobody was watching me. You’ve got me paranoid.”

“Paranoid is good. What are you doing now?”

“Taking out the garbage. I have to get the place cleaned up. I need to find another roommate if I’m going to stay in the city. Brynn’s parents are supposed to come by this weekend and pick up her things.”

“Okay.”

She could hear his hesitation. “Anything wrong, Frost?”

“Not really. I’m being overly cautious.”

“About what?”

“There’s a chance that Dr. Stein’s office isn’t secure. Someone might be listening to her conversations with patients.”

“Do you think that’s how he found Brynn?”

“Maybe. It also means there’s a chance he overheard you.”

“Oh.”

Lucy didn’t say anything more. She listened to the silence of the stairwell. She lived in the city, so she was no stranger to voyeurs. Someone was always listening. Someone was always watching. But she hadn’t said anything to Frankie Stein that would really be a secret.

“Lucy?” Frost asked.

“I’m here. I’ll be careful.”

“That’s all I ask. See you later.”

“Bye, Frost.”

He hung up. She felt a twinge of loneliness, no longer hearing his voice. He made her feel good. She always saw an ordinary girl when she looked in the mirror, but something about the way Frost looked at her made her see a different side of herself. Someone special. Someone unique. She liked that feeling.

She hoisted the garbage bag as high as she could and struggled to the ground floor of the building. The marble hallway led to a metal back door with a crash bar. She nudged it with her hip and pushed outside to the street, yanking the garbage bag behind her.

The alley was crowded with evening shadows. Grease stains and tar patches made splotches on the pavement. The cool air gave her a chill. In both directions, garages lined the street, and utility wires dangled overhead like spiderwebs. Cars and motorcycles filled the opposite curb. The nearest car, a white Taurus, had its trunk open, but the owner was nowhere to be seen.

Lucy looked up and down the street from Laguna on one end to Octavia on the other. She was alone, except for Dante, the homeless man sleeping off a day of drinking in front of the garage. She recognized the tattered red quilt he used. He was harmless. He didn’t try to get inside their building at night, and in return, the tenants filled his shopping cart with extra food whenever they could.

“Hey, Dante,” she called. She didn’t expect a reply, and she didn’t get one.

She dragged her bag to the black trash bin ten feet away. When she swung open the lid, flies swarmed. The bin was mostly full. She tried to lift the bag over the lip, but the asphalt had scraped the plastic, and as she shoved it into the bin, the bottom tore, and garbage spilled at her feet.

Lucy dumped what she could into the bin, then got on her hands and knees to gather up magazines, spoiled food, and the remnants of two boxes of tissues she’d cried into after Brynn died. She was annoyed, and she wasn’t thinking about anything else.