Heather Graham - The Dead Room

“Yes, here in the city,” Eileen murmured. “Up until a little more than a month ago. She found it terribly frustrating….” She inhaled deeply. “And not just the job itself. In my family, we were supposed to make—or marry—money. Both my brother and I were terribly hard on Gen, and all she wanted to do was make life easier on those who didn’t have the same advantages we did. The frustration and red tape got to her, as well, but…none of that’s what matters now. This is the point, this is why I think there’s a connection. She’d been working to help prostitutes in the same area where prostitutes have been disappearing into thin air. Don’t you see? I’m sure she knew some of those missing girls!” Eileen herself seemed ready to explode at that moment.

“Do you know any particulars on why she quit her job?”

Eileen waved a slender, elegant hand in the air. “Irritation with the system. She wanted to get workfare programs going…she wanted to help some of the girls keep their children. She is really an extraordinary human being, Mr. Connolly. Oh, I am so frustrated. No one seems to believe that I know that something’s really wrong. The police can’t—or won’t—do anything.”

“I do understand your frustration,” Joe told her, “but you have to understand that the police are seriously frustrated themselves. The point is, these are disappearances. There’s nothing for them to go on. And the people who have disappeared—in this particular situation—have lived transient lifestyles, which makes it very hard, as well. They can question those closest to the victims—if that’s what they are. They can question people up and down the streets where the victims were last seen. They’ve harassed known pimps to the point that their behavior borders on the illegal. But absolutely no one so far has seen anything to indicate foul play. Meanwhile, the police still have murders, rapes and robberies to deal with, crimes with sadly obvious victims. There’s only so much they can do when they have no victims, no murder weapons, no blood trails, no evidence of any kind.”

“Blood trails?” Eileen said, her eyes snapping. “They have to find out what’s going on and stop it before we discover that we’re in a river of blood! And before my niece is discovered lying dead somewhere. But they’re not going to find out what’s going on because, as you say, they have to deal with the blood they do see on the streets. I’m not calling our police incompetent. They try. Sergeant Adair has, I believe, been ordered to find the explanation for these disappearances, no matter what. They’ve searched Gen’s apartment—if she disappeared by choice, she did so with only her purse and the clothes on her back, not even a good coat. They’ve been to her former office. They’ve tried to question people on the streets. Sadly, I know nothing about her real friends. Or if she was dating. The basics have been done. They’ve proved nothing. Except that she’s gone, which I already knew. So I’ve hired you.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And you will find Genevieve,” she said passionately. “Because you will make finding her your priority every single morning from the moment you open your eyes. I’ll reward you highly.”

He pocketed the picture. “You know my fee. I don’t work to be rewarded highly. If I take a case on, it’s part of my every waking moment until I have an answer. But I’ll need your help at all times. Be ready to answer my calls,” he warned her. “I need to assimilate all that I’ve learned from you tonight, then get busy on my own and see what else I can discover. But I’ll need more help from you. I’ll need everything. Everything you know, anything that occurs to you. And don’t hold back on me. I’m in your employ. I’ll never repeat anything you tell me. Don’t let any family embarrassment hold you back from being entirely truthful with me, do you understand, Mrs. Brideswell? I can’t help you if you aren’t completely honest with me. No amount of money will change that.”

She nodded. Reaching down, she found her purse and produced a small notepad. “I’ve written down everything I know, what names and places I’ve heard…anything I can think of that might be some help.” She produced a pen, scribbling down another notation. “I’ve added the publication I was talking about,” she murmured. “That’s it.”

He accepted the notepad from her. “I’ll do everything I can,” he told her.

She picked up the teacup before her on the table, her eyes distant. She drank what must have been very cold tea by then.

“I’m very sorry about your cousin,” she said softly.

“Thank you.” The words took him by surprise, though he knew instantly what she meant.

“His death was a tremendous loss to the city, but for you, of course, it was very personal, and I extend my sincere condolences.” Her eyes began to water. “I was there that night, you know,” she murmured.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“I learned later that Gen would have been interested in going. In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t know in time to invite her. She’d met a lot of people involved through the years. She had a lot of close contact with the police—being a social worker and all. And she knew Greta through me, of course.”

Joe couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward. “What do you remember about that night?”

“The lights, the music, the beautiful clothing, the glamour…I was in the entryway when the explosion occurred. They rounded us up and got us out immediately. I remember standing on the street and just being incredulous. I remember the sound of the sirens, the ambulances, the paramedics…and the body bags,” she said. “I am so, so sorry.”

“Thank you. Eileen, do you remember anything strange at all?” he pressed.

She gave him a pained smile. “You lost someone you loved, so you want there to be a reason, a better explanation than a gas explosion. No, I’m sorry. It’s all a blur. I was chatting, there was a noise like thunder. Someone was screaming ‘fire,’ people were panicking…the cops came and we were all ushered out.”

Joe nodded. Just what had he been hoping for?

“Thank you,” he repeated.

Her eyes met his, and her words were desperate. “I have to find Genevieve, Mr. Connolly. Please help me.”

Although her posture still seemed so regal and aloof, he reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. “I will do everything I can,” he told her solemnly.

She almost smiled. And then she turned her palm up and gripped his hand in return. Her touch was strong, and as desperate as the sound of her voice.

They talked for a few minutes longer about Genevieve, and as the girl in the picture began to come to life for him, Joe began to make mental notes as to exactly where he would begin his investigation. First he would go over the basic police work. Then he would move on to where the police, by virtue of their sworn duty, could not go.

There were others in the house.

He knew that from the beginning.

At first it was only a vague sense of awareness. They paid him no mind, seemed not to see or recognize him, but even so, he was aware that he was not alone.

There was the woman in the kitchen, for one. She was always by the hearth, stirring something in what he imagined had been a pot over an open fire. She was pretty and young, and wore Colonial garb, including a little mobcap on her head. He wasn’t sure if she had been an illicit mistress or a servant, but she hummed in a pretty voice as she stirred. Every so often she would suddenly straighten, her face pinching into a mask of pain. She would turn around, and her eyes would widen, and then she would fall…and fade away.

There was the soldier in the entry. He staggered into the house, mingled with the misty form of another individual. He would whisper something about a betrayal, and then he, too, would fall and fade away.