A Voice in the Dark

Chapter Three

“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.”

Angel found herself smiling—and surprisingly already standing on the kitchen threshold.

She located the overhead switch, but again, the light was virtually nonexistent. “You’re a wonderful distraction, Graydon. Okay, so I’m in the kitchen. I see three containers of Chinese food on a slopey surface that’s probably a counter. He’s got his used paint rollers wrapped in plastic, and the big goodies, hopefully appliances, draped with tarps. Lily’d love this place.”

“Lily?”

“Munster.” She ran her flashlight into the corners. “You own a TV, right?”

“Search, Angel.”

“I can do that and talk at the same time. Hang on, I’m putting you on speaker.” Depressing the button, she set the phone next to a disposable cup.

Wind whistled through the ill-fitting rear door. The bigger gusts shifted the floor dust and caused the rafters to moan.

Angel’s sharp eyes spied the end of a sleeping bag behind the rickety island. Pulling off her cap and gloves, she shook her hair loose. “Looks like Foret slept in the kitchen. I have to say, this area’s a lot better than the entry hall—except for the yellow walls. Too canary-like. If he was trying for French country, which he shouldn’t be in a pre-Revolution house, he missed by a mile.”

“French farmers don’t like canaries?”

She sighed in the direction of the counter. “Do you have even a drop of European blood in your veins?”

She heard the smile in his voice when he replied. “I happen to know you’re one hundred percent American, Angel. Three generations worth.”

“Ah, but go back to gen four, and we’re talking major global mix. One of my great-grandmothers came from Africa. The other was born in Fiji. My mother’s paternal grandfather was a Brit and the maternal one a potpourri—Italian, Romanian and Norwegian.”

“You missed the Argentine connection.”

She narrowed her eyes at the phone. “I swear to God, Graydon, if you can tell me what color bra I’m wearing, I’m cutting you off right now.”

“I’ll go with white and lacy.”

Lips twitching, she resumed her search. “Not going to react, because you can’t possibly know that. I got dressed in my closet this morning. No windows. The only one who saw me in there was my dog.”

“Lucky Moscow.”

“Pushing it, pal.”

“Angel, everyone in the department knows about your Alaskan husky.”

“Yeah, except I don’t recall ever seeing you in the department. I also don’t go around talking about my background. And my grandmother insists it’s a Mayan connection.” Wedging open a metal box, she sifted through the papers inside. “Other than Joe, how many spies do you have?”

“None, and that includes Joe. I pick up on details, I deduce. Sometimes I hit, just as often I miss. What are those papers you’re rustling?”

“Receipts mostly. Some doodles.” She grinned at one of the pages. “Hey, Foret really did like the Munsters. He drew Lily. Or—” she examined it more closely “—maybe it’s Morticia.”

“Who?”

“Buy a TV, okay?” Pushing the lid down, she continued along the counter. A tiny scraping sound reached her from the island. “Terrific.” She glanced over it. “The rats probably are as big as were-wolves.” She moved one of the food containers aside, then gave in, leaned her elbows on the counter and whispered, “It’s ivory.” She skimmed a finger across the buttons. “All lace, but not quite white.”

“It’s a tempting picture, Angel.”

The tone of his voice brought a surprising rush of heat. But then could you tease a mystery man and not expect to pay the price? She really needed to let go of this particular fantasy.

Fanning her face, she continued her search.

A napkin smeared with soy sauce sat behind the metal box. Red markings showed through from the other side. Curious, she used gloved fingers to smooth the wrinkles.

And there it was.

“Oh, hell.”

It was as far as she got. The scratching sound came again, followed by a low growl.

Movement exploded from behind the island. Angel saw bared teeth, gray arms and a pair of very large hands. A split second before she was tackled to the floor.

“ANGEL!”

Noah heard the growl as clearly as if it were a gunshot. When she didn’t respond, he shouted her name again, then swore and grabbed his jacket. He kept his phone activated, snatched up his keys and held them in his mouth while he dragged on his boots.

The sounds of a struggle were unmistakable. Still swearing, he ran for the door.

No shots had been fired, but then Foret’s killer didn’t use a gun. Knives were silent. And equally fatal.

The attacker’s breath whistled out. Noah knew Angel was good at hand-to-hand. She’d also be carrying a gun.

“Shoot him,” he said through his teeth.

But still no shots reached him.

“Angel!” he tried again.

“Big, heavy jerk…Ouch! Damn.”

Noah pounded through the alley exit and disarmed his truck. He almost tore the hinges off as he opened the door.

He was jamming the key into the ignition when he heard her vexed, “You’re really pissing me off, pal. Face down, stay there and don’t move. Don’t twitch. Don’t even breathe hard.” Louder, she called, “Liz!” Then to the phone, “I’m okay, Noah. It’s a vagrant.”

“Street person,” her assailant’s voice sneered.

All the air left Noah’s lungs. He let his forehead fall onto the steering wheel.

“You’re breathing hard,” Angel warned.

“What d’you expect, lady?” Her prisoner grunted. “You kicked me in the…”

“Angel?” Liz clattered in. “I heard a commotion…Ah. Who’s he?”

“Street person. Noah, are you there?”

Drill the bastard, he thought, but breathed it out and managed a level, “Yeah, I’m here. What the hell’s going on?” Not that he didn’t know, but until his heart returned to his chest, he wanted her to do the talking.

“Just a trespasser,” she answered lightly.

“Yeah, right, like you were invited in.”

“A dirty trespasser,” she continued, “who needs glasses desperately. I’ve been holding my ID in front of his nose for the past two minutes.”

“Could be fake.” The man snorted. “How do I know you’re not running a grow op here? All I wanted to do was sleep where it’s not wet.”

“Move your hand another inch toward my gun and you’ll be in a deeper sleep than you can imagine. Liz?”

“Call’s in. Cops are coming.”

Climbing out of his truck, Noah welcomed the sting of near-freezing rain on his face. “You sure you’re not hurt?”

“Sore cheekbone,” she told him. “He clipped me before I realized what was happening. Otherwise, I’m fine.”

He pictured a bruise under one of her stunning hazel eyes, let the rain wash over his face while his system rebalanced.

“Noah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got the note.”

“The what?” He had to drag his mind back, reorient.

“You told me to look for a note. Pretty sure I found it. It’s written on a diner-style paper napkin. It’s not the same as the napkins that came with the Chinese takeout, but it’s definitely diner-like.”

“Can you read it?”

“Clearly. Whoever did it printed the words in caps using one of those art supply stencils. You want cryptic? You got it. It says: SUFFERING IS THE BRIDGE TO UNDERSTANDING.”

“MAYBE HE SEES HIMSELF as a martyr,” she theorized later.

“Pseudo and sick, but with the genuine belief that he’s ridding the world of evil.”

Liz waited for the server to deposit their lunch orders. “I went through the records last night, Angel. Explain to me what’s evil about a soccer mom with three kids who belonged to the PTA and baked cookies for her husband’s geek squad computer repair coworkers.”

“On the surface, nothing. But I checked the files, too. She lived in Danvers. Maybe she was a closet witch. Wicked as opposed to Wicca.”

“You’re grasping, partner.”

“At really flimsy straws.” Angel drummed her fingers. “The woman was killed eight years ago, yeah?”

“That’s what Joe said Noah said.”

Propping her chin in her hand, Angel nudged her bowl aside and let her mind wander. To an inappropriate place, she had to admit, but she was as human as the next person and female to boot.

“Liz, why will Noah let Joe see him and not me?”

Her partner swallowed a spoonful of Irish stew and groaned. “This is so good. If I knew, Angel, I’d tell you, I really would. For what it’s worth, I haven’t seen him either, or even spoken to him on the phone. No one I know has. Anyway.” She used her index finger to scoop the hair from Angel’s eyes. “You don’t want to see him right now. That cheekbone of yours is bruising nicely.”

Angel touched the mark, sighed, dropped her hand. “‘Suffering is the bridge to understanding.’ That’s not cryptic, it’s the inside of a fortune cookie.”

“Written on a napkin, with a stencil.”

“Noah says that’s how the guy does it. He prints a piece of philosophical gibberish on a scrap of paper, or a napkin, or a candy bar wrapper and slips it to his victims. More often than not, and Foret’s no exception, there’s a partially eaten meal or half empty glass nearby. Which suggests a follow up form of contact at some point, instructing the victim to meet him.”

“Or else…” Liz finished the threat.

Angel glanced over as her cell phone began to vibrate.

“Speak of the invisible devil.” Liz dipped into her stew again. “Listen, I hate to beg favors of a man I’ve never met, but could you ask Mr. Graydon to stop beating my husband at chess? It’s deflating to his ego, and we get enough of that from Graeme and his centerfold girlfriends.”

“It’s not Noah.” Angel tried to stem the feeling of disappointment that made her want to ditch the call. But that was a childish response—and all the more disturbing for that reason. She picked up with a pleasant, “Hey, Brian. What’s the news?”

“What’s the noise?” her dour-sounding coworker countered.

The restaurant Angel and Liz had chosen played edgy flute music at mid-volume. The atmosphere was dusty Irish Goth, with the barest hint of an underlying maritime theme. Not that they could see the ocean, but they could certainly hear the storm blowing in from it as belts of wind battered the weathered outer walls.

“That,” she replied, “is the sound of a glorious autumn rainfall in New England. Any prints on the napkin?”

“Only Foret’s.”

Angel massaged a spot on the back of her neck. “Brian, you were in Boston when the murders stopped five years ago. How many victims did the Penny Killer have?”

“How much wood could a wood chuck chuck…” He offered back a verbal shrug. “Seven that we know of, and I can still name them all.”

She visualized him puffing up as he rattled off the list.

Brian Pinkney, better known as the Brain in Bureau circles, whizzed around the office on his electric wheelchair, getting in everyone’s face and just as frequently on their nerves. He could walk—Angel had seen him do it—but after a car accident several years ago had left him with nerve damage to his spine, he preferred not to tax himself and usually rode instead. He was fiftysix years old, beefy, bald and seemed to sport a new tattoo every time he rolled up his sleeves. No one really liked him, but they couldn’t deny he knew his stuff. Which was probably why he’d lobbied Bergman for the first crack at profiling the Penny Killer.