Jenna Ryan - A Voice in the Dark

“Yeah, fine, got it. Back off or take off. But I have to tell you, she’s pretty spectacular up close.”

“I’ve seen her, Joe.”

“Nuh-uh, not up close, you haven’t, and animated. I’ll take a page out of Graeme’s book and wax poetic for a moment, because she’s—well, beautiful.” He used his hands. “Hair the color of Mayan coffee, miles of it, gorgeous hazel eyes, legs that go from here to my waist and incredible skin. Of course, being married, I’m not supposed to notice things like that, and I know better than to say any of them around my wife, but truth’s truth, and you’re missing the boat where Angel’s concerned, because I promise you, she’s interested, even if you are just a disembodied voice in the night…Now you really are going to tell me to shove off, aren’t you, so end of speech. What say we work on our chess game? I believe it’s my move.”

Joe’s move, yes, but not his game to play. Not his risk to take.

Not his dragon to slay.

Draining his mug, Noah said, “She’s better off out of it. She doesn’t need my demons added to her own.”

“If you mean her daddy dearest, she doesn’t mourn the loss. Some fathers are great—no names, please. Others are total jackasses. You got the cream of the crop in that regard. Angel lucked out physically.” Joe walked to the sofa, hesitated, then blurted an impatient, “You’re not a monster, you know.”

Noah couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Man, do all pathologists take drama as a minor in college?” He dropped his feet. “I’ll meet her when I meet her, okay? Right now, Foret’s the focus. Mine and hers. And your king’s in serious trouble.”

“Nothing new there.” Joe waited until they were seated on opposite sides of the board before meeting Noah’s stare. “You really think it’s him, don’t you? The guy who went on that three-year killing spree, then suddenly stopped.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Even though the evidence in some of those cases was dicey.”

“Still a yes.”

His friend’s hand trembled visibly. “Noah, Liz…”

“Won’t die, okay?” Noah held his gaze without a flicker. “Neither will Angel.”

“A statement you hope is true, but can’t be sure of—unless that patch you wear shoots psychic vibrations directly into your brain.”

Noah didn’t respond, merely rested his forearms on his knees and regarded the chessboard. He spoke to more than his friend when he said softly, “Your move.”

“Okay, so Lionel Foret was what? A Munster wannabe?” Liz stomped her feet on the porch of what was possibly the most decrepit house in Boston. In front of her, Angel rattled an old-fashioned key in the rusted-out lock.

They’d already gone through Foret’s Boston apartment, top to bottom, and found nothing except a million newspapers, enough fast-food containers to fill a city Dumpster and one very fat canary which Foret’s mother, currently en route from Virginia, was planning to take home.

“You heard his mom.” Angel used her shoulder on the stuck door. “Lionel wanted to fix and flip this place. He spent as much time here as he did in his apartment. The other third of his life unfolded in Washington.”

“We’ve got people checking the DC condo, right?”

“Yeah, and his buddy the Secretary is all over them. Bergman’s going down to talk to the man live and in person.”

“Better him than us…Can I help you push?”

“Nope.” Angel braced, gave a hard shove—and almost wound up flat on her face in the foyer as the engorged wood gave. “Got it.”

She shone her flashlight over the wall. “I smell old dust, fresh paint and foo yung. What a combo.” Locating the switch, she flipped it up. “Well, that made a world of difference. One twenty-five watt bulb spread over how many hundreds of junk-filled square feet? Still, the foo yung and paint say he’s been here recently.” She pivoted in a slow circle. “Wow—this is great.”

“It’s cold, it stinks, and it’s probably crawling with bugs.” Liz inspected the sagging ceiling. “Bergman’s a supreme ass for sticking us with this job while he takes a cushy flight to Washington.”

Angel gave her shoulder a tap with the flashlight. “Better him than us, remember? Come on, Liz, where’s your sense of adventure? This is the Munster house. Scratch fixing and flipping. Foret should have added costumed workers to the cobwebs and marketed it as a hotel.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“People said that about ice hotels, and look what happened there. Do you want up or down?”

“Kitchen’ll be down. I’ll go up. Reinforcements are coming, right?”

“A team of four. Two rookies.”

“Perfect, they can do the bathrooms.” She snagged the back of Angel’s jacket. “Be careful.”

“Always am. Watch out for rats on the stairs.”

“Like I could miss them,” her friend muttered. “Place like this, they’ll be as big as wolves.”

“Werewolves,” Angel corrected and laughed when Liz flung a small chunk of plaster at her.

Not that she enjoyed mold and mildew, but calling it the Munster house kept her on the upside of the fantasy. Because, God knew, on the down, she’d be envisioning bats by now. Big ones, grinning like little ghouls, and walking awkwardly as bats tended to do, across the floor.

Her cell phone rang while she was forging a path toward the back of the house. By way of a greeting, she demanded, “Question, Noah, did Eddie’s pet Fang live under the house or under the stairs?”

“Is this a riddle, Angel, or do you always do hallucinogenic drugs at 11:00 a.m. on a Monday?” But he sounded halfway amused, which helped with the bat phobia.

Angel’s foot slid off a section of crumbled wall. “Bergman gave us the victim’s Mockingbird Lane fixer. Wasn’t that sweet? The lights are Edison originals, and if there’s such a thing as a furnace, I can’t believe it’d work.” She set a hand on the chair rail for balance. “There was no note in his downtown apartment. Liz and I spent hours yesterday searching. We had a hacker go through his Blackberry and laptop. Nothing. And both of his briefcases came up empty. If he was meeting someone on the dock, he kept the date, time and identity in his head. We have no witnesses so far and very few other clues. Even Joe doesn’t have anything for us yet. I’m thinking slow slog here.”

“Keep looking.”

“That’s my job—oh, yuck, something squished under my boot.” She wouldn’t look, she promised herself. Hearing a thud, she glanced at the massive staircase. “Spooky,” she decided, then strained to see around a peeling column, “Yellow walls ahead. Could be Foret was trying to force-feed sunshine into the place.”

“You’re there for evidence, not ambience.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re where right now? Fifty bucks says it’s some place warm, dry and mildew-free. Oh thank God, the squishy stuff was only a tube of caulking. Foret’s mother told us he slept here most of last week. She’s a police dispatcher in Virginia, used to be a beat cop.” A loose wire twined around Angel’s ankle and she had to crouch to dislodge it. “Her boyfriend’s driving her up this week. I gather she’s terrified of flying.”

“Yeah, I read the back files. Joy Foret Smith’s first husband was a pilot for a major airline. He had a heart attack between Boston and Jacksonville. Died in the cockpit. She took a leave of absence afterward, for her nerves. Her second husband ran an Internet business. A blood clot got him while they were on vacation at Martha’s Vineyard. Word is she’s sworn off marriage and is currently living with a cop because she’s decided it’s no more dangerous than any other occupation.”