Caught somewhere between total horror and the urge to laugh hysterically, Scarlet said, “Thanks, Barry. Merry Christmas to you.”
Hanging up on him before he could dispense more advice, Scarlet began her nine in a row with, All cried out by Alison Moyet.
Thankful Gary had eaten so little at the Rotunda, Scarlet reached into her lunch bag and selected a raisin scone. Pairing it with a cup of hot chocolate, she sat back and looked around her studio. What had she been so worried about? She could manage one night alone. Niles was very likely correct about the woman with Gary being an aunt or cousin or something. It couldn’t possibly be his wife. He’d asked Scarlet on a trip to go snorkeling with some sort of shark. He’d said he was completely open over Christmas. What would she do without Niles and his cool thinking? She’d forgotten to tell him what Gary had said to the woman. She certainly wouldn’t have mentioned, not until they got back from Boston anyway, how it unnerved her. Digging into her memory bank, she tried once again, to remember who she’d heard say the exact thing Gary voiced to the angry woman.
Then, like an ice-cold blade, piercing her heart … she remembered.
With trembling fingers, Scarlet pulled a black leather wallet from the bottom of her purse.
Retrieving a small card from an inner pocket, she held it in one hand while dialing with the other.
A familiar, be it rather groggy, voice said, “Detective Smyth.”
Attempting, but failing, to not sound hysterical, Scarlet began, “You’ve got the wrong man. You’re looking for the wrong man.”
“Ms. Oaks?” the male voice enquired.
“I think I know who the killer is and it’s not Stew.”
The grogginess gone, Detective Smyth responded, “Where are you right now, Ms. Oaks, do you feel in danger?”
Looking out into the dim and deserted hall beyond her studio, Scarlet replied, “I’m at work and no … at least, I don’t think I’m in danger right now.”
“Remember Ms. Oaks, you are always under surveillance. No one, who isn’t known to you, can get close to you.”
Aware her point wasn’t getting across, Scarlet elaborated, “That’s just it. I think the killer is a man I’ve been on two dates with.”
In what sounded suspiciously like a patronizing tone, Detective Smyth said he’d send over two on-duty detectives to get an updated statement. “Rest assured, Ms. Oaks, only persons cleared to enter your workplace can get past the surveillance team. Why don’t you tell me the reasons you suspect this man you’ve dated?”
Trying to swallow over the massive lump now occupying her throat, Scarlet explained,
“I heard him say something that gave me chills, but at the time I couldn’t really figure out why. It was before our date, in a department store, and he didn’t know I was there. He was with this angry woman who was shouting at a sales assistant. When they walked away from the counter, he said something like, you’re always talking, and you never shut up. I knew I’d just heard another man say the exact same thing, but I couldn’t think where. Just now, it came to me. It was Stewart.”
Scarlet paused to try and regulate her breathing.
Detective Smyth cleared his throat. “It’s an ugly thing to say, I can see why it might stick with you. But do you not think perhaps the woman was his wife? Dare I say, there are a few men who would speak that way to their wives or girlfriends.”
Hysteria creeping back into her voice, Scarlet said, “I think he did say it to his wife and his girlfriend, but then he murdered them. The wildflowers on my car, that happened right around the time of our first date. He told me himself he can change his voice to sound like he’s from all these different places. He called my cell phone, and I’d never given him the number. Just like Stew called me. He lied to me today about having just come from work. He says he’s a lawyer, but I doubt that to be true now. I was late for our first date, but he was even later. I think he watched me park, put the flowers on my car, and then came to the restaurant to meet me. I think the woman I saw him with today, will be his next victim.”
Scarlet took a moment to exhale, and Detective Smyth seized his chance to talk. “Ms. Oaks, I understand how all these actions add up to one suspicious looking guy, but SFPD is pretty sure we’re searching for the right man.”
Scarlet voiced with frustration, “You’ve got the right person, but the wrong photo. The man you showed me is not the killer. The real guy goes by the name Gary. He’s tall and blond and twenty years younger.”
Smyth enquired, “What information can you give me on Gary?”
Closing her eyes, Scarlet tried to visualize the information on the dating site. “His name, or the name he used, is Gary Sterling. I met him on a site called, Meet and maybe, about six weeks ago. He’s called my cell phone twice. The first time he left a message and the second time he called so early I was too sleepy to look at the incoming number. I’ve only ever contacted him through the message system on the site.”
“That’s great intel,” Smyth responded. “These sights keep personal information private but not when the PD comes knocking. You’ve given me enough to find out exactly who this guy is.”
Feeling some relief, Scarlet said, “Thank you, and I’m sorry if I woke you.”
Smyth gave a low chuckle. “You didn’t wake me. My job is not only to find this creep but to keep you safe and feeling safe Ms. Oaks.”
Minutes after hanging up with Smyth, Scarlet felt part guilt, part relief about detectives being en route. Certainly, she was safe with constant surveillance, but at least she could enforce her belief of who the real killer was to them. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she poured another cup of hot chocolate, then felt somewhat capable of talking.
The first caller was visiting the Bay Area for the holidays. He’d come to the city to surprise his girlfriend for Christmas. They’d been dating for the last three years at Oregon University. The reception his surprise got was less than warm. Why did Scarlet suppose that was? Feeling so ill-equipped to answer this question on tonight of all nights, Scarlet fobbed him off with the suggestion his girlfriend was just a little shocked. How sometimes surprise can be misread as coldness. She proposed he sit down and have an honest chat with his girlfriend, then call Mending Men again to let Scarlet and the other listeners in on his progress. There was only one more caller on hold, and Scarlet prayed it was Rod from Modesto. Tonight, she would welcome the man who never required Scarlet to say a word.
In a quieter voice than normal, Scarlet said, “Thank you for calling Mending Men, this is Scarlet, how can I help?”
With no preamble, a gravelly voice asked, “How many other people are with you at the station right now?”
Instantaneously smothered in a thick blanket of fear, Scarlet held a shaking finger over the disconnect button. “Who is this?”
The voice responded, “This is someone who knows you’re all alone right now.”
Scarlet wanted to scream she wasn’t alone, she was surrounded by beefy security guys and detectives would be with her any moment, but no words would come. Her jittery finger still hovered above the disconnect button. The lump in her throat had returned. Only this time, it appeared to have effectively restricted her vocal cords.
The gravelly tone morphed into a sneer, “Don’t panic, Miss, how can I help. You’re not really alone.”
Scarlet removed her right hand from the console and clasped it together with a slightly less shaky left hand. “You’re right, I’m not alone, and I’d appreciate you not …”
Cutting her off in midsentence, the caller said, “You’re not alone because I’m here with you, Scarlet.”
Certain all the blood from her body now lay solely in her feet, Scarlet looked out her studio window and silently prayed for the detective’s speedy arrival.
Mumbling something about that not being possible, Scarlet reached towards the disconnect button but not before she heard the mystery caller say, “You’re wearing jeans and a black sweater.”
Bri
efly glancing towards the hallway again, Scarlet, be it weakly voiced into the mic, “I know it’s you, Gary.”
The sinister voice began again but was abruptly silenced when Scarlet cut him off.
She didn’t need the confirmation, but the detectives might, Gary was the only person to have seen her today. Nobody else, save the surveillance guys, would know what she was wearing.
Seemingly brighter than it had ever been, the call button flashed madly, reminding Scarlet she had dead air. With what could only come from years of conditioning, she found the will to hit the button starting the next nine songs in a row.
Gary couldn’t possibly be in the building but was determined to scare her to death from wherever he was. The detectives were on their way, and Smyth was investigating him. Surveillance had her covered, and she’d stay put until the detectives were mere feet away.
Feeling as if these facts might just keep her upright and breathing for a few more minutes, Scarlet sat and stared into the hall.
Eerily in sync, Queen began singing about their desire to ride a bicycle as the lights in the corridor flashed on and off. Telling herself the bulbs were just old and acting up, Scarlet continued to stare out her studio into the corridor, almost paralyzed with fear. Following moments of flashing, akin to a discotheque, the lights normalized. Forcing herself to breathe in and out, Scarlet reached over for her cell phone. What was taking those detectives? She’ll have died from a heart attack before they got her statement.
About to redial Detective Smyth, Scarlet’s studio was plunged into complete darkness.
Hearing a loud scream and then realizing it was coming from her, Scarlet’s shaking hands scrambled into her purse and fingered the cold width of Tom’s flashlight. The hall now in darkness too, Scarlet may as well have been underground, it was so black. Removing the familiar circular thickness from her purse, she felt around its trunk for the frustratingly elusive on button. Bang! The window, separating her studio from the hallway creaked in protest, as someone or something, thumped hard on the glass.
Scarlet’s body lurched backward. The flashlight fell with a loud thud. Amid low, soft whimpering sounds escaping her constricted windpipe, Scarlet lowered her unsteady body beneath the desk.
The thumping on the glass came again, this time with more force.
Scarlet spread her hands across the old matted carpet until she located the flashlight. Feeling as if she were screaming but knowing the reality continued to be an animalistic type cry, she pushed the wide flat button upwards, the powerful light springing to life.
Remembering her phone was atop the desk, she was currently crouched under, Scarlet struggled with the dilemma of psychologically perceived safety where she was, over retrieval of her phone and outside contact.
Adrenaline now pumping forcefully through her veins, Scarlet could hear every beat of her heart, could smell the damp mustiness from the carpet mixed with the sweet vanilla from the half-eaten opera cake.
Repeating a short prayer over and over, Scarlet’s almost chant-like plea was interrupted by a man’s voice, shouting, “Scarlet, are you helping people in there? See, no need to worry, you’re not alone.”
Amid gasping sobs, Scarlet pulled shaking knees up under her chin, before wrapping arms tightly around them.
Rocking her trembling body back and forth, she thought about her father. She pictured him in his tux, chatting to the people he needed to talk to before making a hasty retreat from the Christmas party. She visualized her Gran sitting in the library, reading a treasured George Elliot novel. About an hour from now, the two of them would be driving to the station to escort Scarlet home. What would they find? A parking lot full of Police cars and Scarlet drowned in …
Feeling the flashlight against her hip, Scarlet picked it up, stood, and shone it into her purse. Retrieving the large sock covered soap, she then transferred the flashlight to her left hand and began swinging the sock with her right.
Continuing this exercise as she exited her studio, Scarlet practiced a little motivational self-talking. “Swing and whack, swing and whack.”
Walking towards the reception area with newfound fortitude, Scarlet held the powerful flashlight a good foot in front and never stopped swinging.
Halfway down the long corridor, Scarlet voiced a warning, “There are police surrounding this building, Gary. We know who you are.”
Breathing heavily and still wielding her sock weapon, Scarlet sensed she was getting close to the stairs. She’d be outside and safe in mere seconds. Gingerly placing one foot forward, she transferred the flashlight to join the sock in her right hand and felt for the stair rail.
A stream of light illuminating the stairs but not the banister, she fumbled mid-air for a solid object. Silently and seemingly out of nowhere, Scarlet felt a vice like grip on her left ankle. Emitting a blood-curdling scream, she stumbled forward but miraculously grasped what felt to be the railing. Twisting her entire body to the left, Scarlet swung her right arm towards the attacker. She felt the sock and flashlight hit something or someone.
Guttural curses and moans ensued. These continued, be it fainter, as Scarlet’s ankle was released. Her center of balance compromised, Scarlet’s right leg lost its footing. A long, slow squeak proceeded as her left hand failed to maintain its grip on the banister. Tumbling sideways, Scarlet’s small frame thumped and bounced down the steep staircase.
Landing in a crumpled heap on the floor, Scarlet heard someone call her name. Lifting her head towards the voice, she winced from the stabbing pain behind her eyes. Returning her head to its original position, Scarlet knew, whoever it was, she was in no shape to defend herself.
Her eyes closed, because it felt so much better, Scarlet heard the voice come again. It kept calling her name and appeared to be getting closer as if traveling through a tunnel.
At length, her eyelids flickered open to half-mast. Leaning over her, with a worried expression on his face, was her Grandpa Herb.
Sounds of sirens filled the darkness. Countless flashlights illuminated the reception area while stomping feet ran past her and up the staircase. After being gently placed on a gurney, Scarlet realized the man’s face did resemble her late Grandfather’s, but he was in fact, Detective Adams.
****
The following morning, in a routinely sterile but bright hospital room, Joe and Rose helped fill in the details of Scarlet’s ordeal.
“Your Gran and I were taking our normal sedate drive to escort you home when we were practically mowed down by an ambulance leaving the parking lot. I hadn’t even put the car in park before your Gran jumped out and started running towards the station doors. I caught up with her just as two uniformed Policemen asked who we were and what business we had at Bay Radio.”
Brushing some hair out of Scarlet’s eyes, Rose added, “Your father was more than a little agitated, he demanded to know where you were. At that point, a tall black man came up to us and introduced himself as….”
“Detective Smyth,” Scarlet suggested.
Smiling, Rose said, “That was him and rather handsome I think.”
Frowning at her grandmother, Scarlet asked, “Did they catch Gary?”
Looking over at her son for confirmation and seeing him nod, Rose said, “Yes, I believe they did. The detective told me you gave him what for with that sock soap.”
They all laughed, and Scarlet became aware her head wasn’t quite ready for the exertion.
Detective Smyth entered the hospital room.
“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” he voiced, approaching the bed. “Do you feel well enough for a couple of questions?”
Scarlet nodded. Joe and Rose said they’d return shortly armed with a strawberry milkshake.
“You caught Gary slash Stewart,” Scarlet said with a small smile.
Smyth sat on the chair Rose had vacated. “We caught the guy, but it wasn’t Gary or Stewart.”
Certain she must have misheard the detective, Scarlet stared at him until he said somet
hing that made sense.
“The man who attacked you is Andree White. He’s got a pretty decent rap sheet. Mostly petty theft, but in the last few years, he’s progressed to domestic abuse and indecent exposure.”
Scarlet immediately had a headful of questions, but all she could manage was, “So Andree is his real name.”
With a bemused expression, Detective Smyth asked, “Had you met this man before?”
Trying to focus, while her mind raced, Scarlet said, “Not exactly. He was seeing a girl who works for the station. Sylvia, her Uncle’s the manager of Bay Radio.”
Smyth retrieved the trusted notebook from his breast pocket. “That would explain why he was driving Miss Danico’s car and used her keys to enter the building.”
Shaking her head and discovering that hurt more than laughing, Scarlet said, “No that can’t be. They’re not together anymore. He moved to San Diego.”
Seeing the look of discomfort on Scarlet’s face, Detective Smyth suggested, “This is too much for you right now. How about I let you rest and come back later?”
Closing her eyes for a moment, Scarlet replied, “I’m fine, really. The doctor said I have a slight concussion is all.”
Smyth raised his eyebrows. “And your fair share of bruises from a speedy decent down those stairs.”
Scarlet forced a small smile. “Sylvia’s in Hawaii for the holidays. He must have stolen her car somehow. She knew he’d used her to get into Bay Radio. He made a harassing call to me once before. It spooked me, but I figured the weasel was just rotten and showing off for Sylvia.”
Detective Smyth looked up from his notes. “We have him in custody. He claims his girlfriend asked him to come by the station and see her. Our surveillance guys, who needless to say, are on leave pending an investigation, thought it was Miss Sylvia Danico coming to work. Mr. White arrived minutes after you and parked his, her, car very close to the building, next to yours. He used a key to enter the station. Surveillance assumed it was Sylvia who, of course, had clearance to be there.”
Scarlet Oaks and the Serial Caller Page 16