Incriminating Evidence
She went into the bathroom and took a melatonin tablet, determined to salvage what was left of the night. Then, shivering, she crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Turning her mind away from Orson Lee Finch and his victims, she let her thoughts drift back to her meeting with Nick LaSalle.
She remembered him well from their previous encounter. Skeletal remains had been discovered in a wooded park after a heavy rain and Nick had been the detective assigned to the investigation. He’d come to Catherine for help in establishing a biological profile of the victim. Their consultation had been brief, but he’d made an impression. Tall and lean with dark hair and gray eyes the color of a rain cloud.
He’d struck her as professional and methodical with flashes of intuition that had surprised her. She’d been unexpectedly drawn to him and had been disappointed when he hadn’t made further contact. Perhaps the attraction had been one-sided. Or perhaps other things had occupied his time. She vaguely recalled something unpleasant about his departure from the police department. She searched her mind for the details, but drowsiness clouded her memory and anyway, she’d never put much stock in rumors.
She drifted in and out of sleep, aware of her surroundings on some level even as she started to dream. She was in her bedroom, safely tucked beneath the covers. If she opened her eyes, she knew that she would see all her familiar possessions. The refinished dresser that had belonged to her mother, the vase of blue hydrangeas on her nightstand that she’d picked from her landlady’s garden.
And yet the room that flitted at the edge of her consciousness was very different. Tiny and dim with pictures cut from a storybook taped to a drab wall. She could hear a man’s voice, distant and angry, and a woman softly pleading. The sound frightened Catherine. She tried to rouse herself, but sleep tugged her deeper. The tinkle of a music box muted the voices and lulled her senses. She floated on those melancholy notes until her eyes fluttered open and she waited for the music to stop.
Fully awake, she bolted upright in bed. She could still hear a distant tinkle. She tried to convince herself that her landlady had returned. The older woman suffered hearing loss so perhaps she’d turned up the volume on her TV or radio. But the house was too far away and noise had never been a factor in the two years Catherine had lived in the apartment.
She clutched the covers to her chest, paralyzed with fear, though she couldn’t say why exactly. The sound of a music box was hardly threatening, and yet dread clawed at her spine as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Barefoot and trembling, she crossed the bedroom and peered down the narrow hallway toward the living area. Nothing moved. She reached for the light switch but checked herself. She knew her way around the apartment with her eyes closed. If someone had broken in, the dark would give her an advantage.
Retreating back into the bedroom, she grabbed a baseball bat from the closet and then returned to the hallway, easing her way to the front of the apartment where she stood in the dark as the haunting melody washed over her.
The music box wasn’t in her apartment, she realized. The notes drifted through her front door. Inching her way along the wall, she peeled back the curtain to peer out into the wet night. A set of wooden stairs led from the garden up to a tiny covered porch dimly lit by sconces on either side of her front door. An old-fashioned swing hung from a tree limb at the bottom of the steps. The chains squeaked ominously in the breeze, and for a moment, Catherine imagined someone sitting there staring up at her.
No one was there. But someone had just been there. The music box was only now winding down.
Gripping the handle of the bat, Catherine unlocked the dead bolt and pulled back the door.
She didn’t see anything at first, but then her gaze dropped. The music box had been shoved up against the wall, protected from the rain by the porch roof. As the notes faded, the tiny ballerina froze in a suspended pirouette.
Catherine knelt to examine the box even as her gaze scanned the night. Someone had been on her porch moments earlier. They’d wound the spring and left the music box for her to find. But why?
Rising, she walked to the edge of the steps and stared down into the soggy garden.
“I know you’re out there,” she whispered. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The breeze blew through her hair and the rain dampened her nightgown. It almost seemed to Catherine that she could feel the cool caress of her mother’s hand against her cheek. But Laura March hadn’t left the music box on Catherine’s porch nor had she followed her to LaSalle Investigations that afternoon.
Someone very much alive knew who she was. And they were trying to make contact.
Chapter Three
The oak trees were still dripping the next morning as Nick let himself in the gate and made his way along the flagstone pathway to Catherine’s apartment. The rain had slackened sometime before dawn but the weather forecast called for more thunderstorms in the afternoon.
The gloom wore on Nick’s mood, but the unexpected phone call from Catherine had given him a lift. He hadn’t planned on contacting her until he heard back from Finch’s attorney. If that source didn’t pan out, he’d have to figure another way to get a visitor’s permit for the Twilight Killer. He could always find a work-around, but first things first.
Pausing at the bottom of the outdoor staircase, he scoped out his surroundings. The garden was lush and redolent with the scent of flowers stirred by the heavy rains. The main house was historic, with gleaming columns and wide verandas, but the garage apartment was rustic and weathered. As his gaze moved over the facade, he saw a curtain flutter at a front window.
Catherine was up there watching him. He felt a prickle of awareness at the base of his spine, one that seemed equal parts attraction and trepidation. She hadn’t elaborated on her need to see him, but there’d been a hushed quality to her voice and an underlying excitement in her tone that heightened his curiosity even as it deepened his unease.
He tried to shake off the foreboding as he climbed the steps. The door opened before he had a chance to knock and their gazes collided. Her hair was pinned up loosely and worry lines creased her brow. She looked as if she hadn’t slept much the night before, but despite the shadows of fatigue beneath her eyes, she was far too appealing in her faded jeans and sneakers.
In that drawn-out moment of awkward silence, she gave him a return scrutiny before she motioned him inside. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I could have met you at your office. You didn’t have to make a special trip over here.”
He shrugged as he entered her apartment, trying not to stare but curious about her living arrangements. The place was small, but the layout was efficient and the furniture had been arranged to accommodate an easy flow from one area to the next. Watercolors accented the white walls and area rugs warmed the tile floor. It was nice. Homey with a touch of eccentricity.
He turned. “It’s no trouble. I pass right by here on my way to the office.”
“Oh, well, that’s good. Still, I don’t want to take up too much of your time so we should probably get right to it.” She walked into the small kitchen. “I made coffee. How do you take yours?”
“Black is fine.”
She carried a tray into the living room and placed it on the coffee table. Perching on the edge of the sofa, she filled the cups while Nick took a chair across from her. He accepted the steaming brew gratefully. He’d gotten up early and he had a long day ahead of him. A jolt of caffeine was just what he needed.
“I suppose I should start at the beginning.” Catherine lifted her cup and then set it back down without tasting the coffee. She adjusted her position and cleared her throat. “I neglected to tell you something yesterday. I didn’t think it important, but in light of what happened last night...”
He leaned forward. “What did happen last night?”
“I’ll get to that. Let me come clean first.”
“By all means.”
She absently rubbed the tops of her thighs. What was she trying to scrub away? Nick wondered.
“I think I’m being followed,” she said.
“What makes you think that?” Reluctantly, he set his cup aside. The coffee was excellent. Strong and aromatic with a hint of chicory.
“On my way to your office yesterday, I had the strangest feeling of being watched. When I stopped for a light, I saw a man lounging in a doorway behind me. He was just standing there smoking, seemingly minding his own business, but he looked familiar somehow even though I couldn’t place him.” She paused with a frown as if trying to conjure a previous meeting. Then she shrugged. “I called out to him. I even asked if he was following me, but he just turned and walked away.”
“It’s rarely a good idea to confront a stranger, even if you think he’s following you. Especially if you think he’s following you.”
“I know. I’m not usually impulsive, believe me, and I hate confrontations, but something came over me. Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of things that are out of character for me.”
“Such as?”
“Hiring a private detective, for one thing.” She clasped her hands in her lap as if she could somehow restrain her impulses. “I’ve read that grief can make a person behave oddly. That’s why it’s ill-advised to make important decisions for at least a year after the death of someone close.” She sat quietly for a moment. “Before my mother passed away, I would never have dreamed in a million years that I would require your services.”
“You never considered searching for your birth parents before?”
“I had always been told that my biological father was dead. As to the woman who gave birth to me...yes, of course, I considered finding her, but I never pursued it seriously. It would have felt like a betrayal of the woman who raised me. Not that she would have seen it that way. She would have encouraged me had she known. I think I’ve been afraid to find my birth mother.”
“Because you think she’ll reject you?”
“No, it isn’t that. There are things about myself that I’ve never understood. Certain anxieties. I’ve always had a fear of the dark and I don’t know where that comes from. I was raised in a safe and loving environment. It makes no sense and yet...” She trailed off. “I don’t sleep well because of that fear. Ever since I was little, I’ve had sporadic bouts of insomnia and night terrors.”
“What are the night terrors about?”
“Nothing concrete. Vague images. A feeling of being lost and not being able to find my way home. A feeling of being pursued through the dark.” She paused. “Typical childhood fears that I never outgrew.”
“You think these night terrors are caused by something that happened before you were adopted?”
“I don’t know. But maybe it’s time I find out.”
“Have you ever talked to a professional? Sorry,” Nick muttered. “Maybe that’s getting too personal.”
“Not at all. I don’t mind talking about it. My mother took me to see a therapist when I was young. After a few visits, he suggested the night terrors were a manifestation of deeper abandonment issues. Maybe he was right. It makes sense, I guess. But ever since I found those clippings in my mother’s closet, I haven’t been able to shake the notion that I’ve suppressed memories from my early childhood.”
“You said you were adopted at the age of two. Few people have memories that go back that far,” Nick said.
“Few people remember back that far. Who’s to say the memories aren’t still stored somewhere in the subconscious? We know so little about memory and how it works. What if I saw something as a very small child? Something so terrible that I can only let those memories come out when I dream?”
“You think this is all tied to Orson Lee Finch?”
“That’s my worry.” She rose and went over to the window to glance out. “I know I shouldn’t dump this on you. You’re not my therapist.”
“I’m here to help,” he said. “In whatever form that takes.”
She turned with a brief smile. On the surface, her gaze seemed guileless, even grateful, but her eyes looked troubled and Nick couldn’t help wondering again what lay hidden in those endless depths.
Was she the offspring of Orson Lee Finch? He let his mind wander to that dark place and tried to imagine what the ultimate child of Twilight might have locked away in her subconscious.
She came back over to the sofa and sat down. “I’m sorry for going so far down the rabbit hole, but you’re a very good listener. Patient. Nonjudgmental. I can talk to you more candidly than I ever could to my therapist.”
Nick tried to shake off the disturbing images that had formed in his head. “There’s a shrink in every good detective. You listen, you learn.” He observed her for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this yesterday? Particularly your worry about being followed?”
“Because I already sounded delusional and I didn’t want you to also think me paranoid. And now I’ve managed to sound completely unhinged. I can only imagine what you must be thinking.”
“I’m thinking you’ve been through a life-changing event,” he said. “You’ve suffered a devastating loss and you’re still reeling. A week isn’t a very long time. Cut yourself some slack.”
“I’m trying. It’s just all so confusing. So many things have happened since my mother died. Maybe I am still reeling.”
“Then slow down. Take a breath. Drink your coffee before it gets cold.” He picked up his cup.
She did the same, sipping slowly with eyes closed as if to savor the aroma while she collected her thoughts. “After I left your office yesterday, I felt better about things. Taking action gave me purpose. Something concrete to focus on. I even managed to convince myself that the man I’d seen in the doorway was nothing more than a stranger. He hadn’t been following me at all. I’d let my imagination get away from me. But last night after I went to bed, I kept picturing him out there in the dark watching my apartment. The feeling was so strong that I even got up to look for him.
“I finally managed to doze off, but I wasn’t completely asleep. I drifted in that gauzy, half-aware state where real-world sounds and scents are incorporated into a dream. Like falling asleep with the TV on. I saw myself in a strange room, tiny and dim with storybook pictures taped to the wall. I could hear voices and they frightened me. Then a music box started playing and when I awakened, I could still hear the melody. At first, I thought it was just a figment of my imagination or a lingering fragment of the dream. But the music was real.”
Nick found himself enthralled by her story and once again mesmerized by the darkness of her eyes. Her skin was smooth and tanned, and when she turned her head, light glistened in her hair. For one split second, she seemed so ethereal she might have been a figment of his imagination. He could smell vanilla again and something more exotic like sandalwood or myrrh. The fragrances mingled into an intriguing dichotomy that disquieted Nick even as it aroused him.
He glanced around, taking in the candles on the kitchen bar and a small incense burner on one of the end tables. At the farthest end of the coffee table, she’d placed a small jewelry box, the kind that might adorn a little girl’s dresser. The keepsake looked old. The hinges were tarnished and some of the decorative paper had peeled away from the cardboard.
His gaze went back to Catherine. She reached over and picked up the small box, running her finger along the top before opening the lid to display a tiny plastic ballerina. “While I lay sleeping in my bedroom, someone left this outside my front door. They wound the key and then shoved the music box up against the wall so that it would stay dry until I found it.”
“You didn’t see anyone? You didn’t hear anything besides the music box? No footsteps, no car door...?”
“Nothing. But I didn’t venture past the top of the stairs.” Her voice lowered. “It was very dark out last night.”
He wondered if she realized just how much she had revealed to him in that moment. “That was smart. Did you consider calling the police?”
“The thought crossed my mind, but what could I say? What could they do? No law was broken except trespassing, I suppose. I wasn’t threatened. By the time the police got here, whoever left the music box would have been long gone.”
“We can try lifting prints,” Nick suggested.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been careful with it,” she said with regret. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“That’s okay. We can eliminate yours. I still have a friend or two at CPD. If we’re able to get a viable print, we can run it through the databases. I’m assuming you believe the music box is also connected to Finch and to those newspaper clippings.”
She gave a helpless shrug. “How could it not be?”
He thought about that for a moment. “Did you talk to anyone else about those clippings?”
“My aunt. I wanted to know if she had any idea why my mother had saved them.”
“Did she?”
“She said Mother had always been fascinated by true-crime stories, but I’m not sure I believe that. She never even watched the news when she could avoid it.”
“Do you think your aunt deliberately tried to mislead you?”
“I think she was trying to protect me. I don’t know how much she knows about my adoption, but if Mother suspected that Orson Lee Finch was my father, it stands to reason she would have confided in my aunt. Louise is an attorney. Mother may have even gone to her for advice.”
“Is there anyone else your mother would have talked to?”
“I don’t think so. She didn’t have many close friends.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone else? Even a casual mention?”
“Only you.”
He held out his hand. “May I?”
She reluctantly gave up the music box. Nick was careful to handle only the corners as he turned the box over to examine the bottom. Then he placed it on the coffee table and opened the lid with his finger. The ballerina turned jerkily then stopped. “It looks old,” he said.
“Yes, though not an antique. It’s cheaply made. Just cardboard and paper.” Catherine paused. “Someone must have loved it, though. A child may even have cherished it.”
Nick glanced up. “You’ve never seen it before?”
“Not that I remember. I’ve never been particularly drawn to music boxes until I heard the sound of one in my sleep last night.”
“Did you recognize the song?”
“‘Clair de Lune,’ I think.”
“Does that tune mean anything to you?”
“No, but someone left this on my doorstep for a reason. Someone is trying to tell me something. But why now? Why after all these years would my birth mother try to make contact?”
“Assuming it was her, maybe she heard about your mother passing away.”
“That would mean she’s kept tabs on me all these years. The notion that she’s watched me from afar since I was two years old is disconcerting to say the least. But it makes sense in a way. I’ve always had these odd moments in my life. Something comes over me. A chill that I can’t explain. A sensation of being watched.” She shivered. “There I go, sounding unhinged again.”
“Not at all,” Nick said, but the hair at his nape had unaccountably lifted as she spoke. He didn’t know what to make of this new turn of events. A trip to the prison to request a DNA sample from Orson Lee Finch had suddenly morphed into something darker and much more complex. He thought about his uncle’s warning not to get involved and Nick’s answering assurance that he could handle himself. That’s what we all say until we’re in too deep and there’s no turning back.
Was he already in too deep? He was attracted to Catherine March, no question, but he had always prided himself on his level-headedness. On his ability to steer clear of dangerous distractions. He didn’t know if he could do that with Catherine. He didn’t know if he wanted to.
Beyond her physical allure, she had presented him with an intriguing case, the kind he hadn’t come across since he’d left the police department. He hadn’t realized until that moment how restless he was, how hungry he’d become, in more ways than just one.
“Do you mind if I take the music box back to the office? I don’t have a print kit with me.”
“No, I...no.” She stood abruptly. “I’ll get something to put it in, although I suppose we’ve handled it too much already.”
She brought him a bag from the kitchen and he carefully placed the music box inside. “I’ll take good care of it.” He stood and she walked him to the door.
“Thank you again for coming.”
“Anytime. I mean that, Catherine. If you see anything out of the ordinary or if you just feel uneasy, I’m only a phone call away.”
She followed him out to the porch and stood at the top of the steps as he descended. When he got to the bottom, he turned with a wave, but she was no longer watching him. Her attention was fixed on something in the garden, and he turned with a frown, almost expecting to find the stranger from the doorway lurking beneath one of the dripping trees.
He saw nothing, heard nothing, but a chill swept across his nerve endings as his gaze returned to Catherine March.
* * *
THE WEATHER WAS still clear by the time Catherine set out for work and she decided to take a chance that the promised thunderstorms would hold off until she returned home that evening. She didn’t much like to drive and the walk from her apartment to the university was so beautiful. Many of the homes in her adopted neighborhood were historic with walled gardens and secret courtyards that could be glimpsed through wrought-iron gates. The scent of jasmine clung to the humid air, tugging loose memories from her childhood. She missed her mother. Missed her soothing voice and gentle hand, her quiet smile and the too-rare glint of mischief in her blue eyes. Everything will be okay, Cath. You’ll see. Just keep breathing. One day at a time.
What if another mother was still out there somewhere? Watching from afar? Trying to assuage Catherine’s loneliness in the only way she knew how?
Catherine wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She wasn’t ready to move on. She wasn’t ready to let Laura March slip away from her. She needed to clutch those memories tight.
Maybe it had been a mistake to hire a private investigator. She had no doubt Nick LaSalle would be good at his job. Maybe too good. Did she really want to know about her past? Was she ready to make peace with her DNA?
“Miss, you okay?”
She started out of her reverie. A man had approached her on the street. She’d been so deep in thought, she hadn’t even noticed him. Now her hackles rose as she nodded. “I’m fine.”
“You look a little lost,” he said. “Need directions?”
She mustered a smile even as she backed away. “Kind of you to ask, but I know where I’m going.”
She just had no idea where she’d come from.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Вы ознакомились с фрагментом книги.
Для бесплатного чтения открыта только часть текста.
Приобретайте полный текст книги у нашего партнера:
Полная версия книги