In the Dead of Night

by Linda Castillo

  She was already reaching for the folder containing the pages she’d printed at the library when he started for the shower.

  Ten minutes later he found Sara sitting at his dining room table, every scrap of information on the deaths of their parents spread out before her. On the stove, a saucepan steamed, and he realized she’d heated soup.

  “I hope you like chicken noodle.”

  “Grew up on it.” But Nick wasn’t thinking about soup. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sara—the way she looked, sitting at his table, her attention fastened to the papers in front of her. Even pale, a bruise the size of a walnut forming on her forehead, she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on. She was determined and smart and brave and he suddenly had the urge to go to her and take her mouth in a kiss. He knew better than to entertain inappropriate thoughts at a time when he needed to keep his distance. But she didn’t exactly invoke his best judgment.

  “I’ll make an ice pack for that bruise,” he said.

  “It doesn’t hurt.” She gave him only half of her attention as she paged through a mountain of papers.

  “If you don’t get that swelling down, you’ll feel it in the morning.” He carried bowls to the table and set one in front of her. “Sorry for canned food. The scourge of a bachelor.”

  She glanced up from the paper she was reading. An emotion he didn’t understand scrolled across her features, then her expression turned somber. “Sonia told me about your late wife, Nick. I’ve been so caught up in this, I didn’t broach the subject. But I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

  The statement shouldn’t have taken him by surprise, but even after a year he invariably had a difficult time knowing how to respond. He didn’t like condolences. Didn’t like remembering those dark months following Nancy’s death.

  She must have noticed his reaction because she set the paper down and set her hand over his. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m such a klutz.”

  “You’re not.”

  “You okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Judging from the way she was looking at him, he figured it was a safe bet they both knew he wasn’t. Not that he wanted to talk about it. He didn’t. Not now. Not ever. That was how he’d dealt with the loss. The pain. In the year since the accident, Nick hadn’t discussed Nancy’s death with anyone. He hadn’t told a soul she’d been eight weeks pregnant. Or that for months afterward he’d struggled with nightmares and flashbacks and cold sweats in the middle of the night.

  Shoving the dark memories aside, Nick began to pace. An uncomfortable restlessness stirred inside him, as if he didn’t quite fit into his own skin.

  “You’re going to wear a path in the tile.”

  He turned to look at her, knowing immediately his expression was too intense, too serious. Too…sad.

  “That was a joke.” She gave him a tentative smile.

  He hoped his smile looked real. “Not my strong point.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Sara glanced down at the papers in front of her. After a moment, Nick took the chair next to her. He wasn’t close, but near enough to get a whiff of her perfume. The scent went to his head like a powerful narcotic, making him a little dizzy.

  “Okay,” he began. “Let’s take a look at everything you’ve got and see if we can make sense of it.”

  Sara glanced down at her notes. “We have the reel-to-reel.”

  “The newspaper stories, one of which puts my father and your mother together at a café.”

  “With an unidentified manuscript,” Sara added. “That has yet to be found.”

  “The notes that were stolen from you.”

  “An anonymous caller.”

  “And an unidentified perp who nearly pushed you off that cliff and left two threatening messages.”

  Her gaze met his. Within the depth of her gypsy eyes Nick saw fear. But it was tempered with a firm resolve to do what she needed to do to solve a mystery that became more complex and grew uglier with each layer they peeled away.

  “They were working on a book,” she said.

  “A true-crime book that would have ruined Blaine Stocker.”

  “He was killing women,” she said in that same hollow voice. “Filming it.”

  “Selling it to the highest bidder as snuff.”

  “That’s incredibly…evil,” she said.

  But Nick’s mind was already jumping ahead with some very ugly scenarios. Not only of young women being killed, but of a young crime writer and a prominent Hollywood couple who might have been murdered for the knowledge they possessed. Knowledge they’d planned to expose in a very public way.

  “This is almost too wild to believe,” Sara said.

  “Stocker wouldn’t have wanted information like this becoming public,” he said carefully.

  He knew it the instant his meaning registered. Her eyes widened. What little color was left in her cheeks drained. “You think Blaine Stocker is responsible for their deaths?”

  “Think about it. Your parents and my father were about to ruin him in a very big way.”

  “So he murdered them, and made it look like murder-suicide.”

  “We can’t be certain, but it’s an angle definitely worth looking into.” He hit a key on the laptop and shoved it at her. “Have you ever seen him before?”

  Sara looked at the photo of a young Blaine Stocker. He was in some upscale Hollywood restaurant with a laughing blonde on his arm. Sara stared at the photo as if transfixed.

  “What is it?” Nick pressed. “Do you recognize him? Was he there that night?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. He seems familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve seen him. I don’t even know if I’ve ever met him.” Lowering her head slightly, she rubbed at both temples with her fingertips. “Damn it.”

  The urge to go to her, set his hands on her shoulders and massage away the aches was strong, but Nick didn’t move.

  “Headache?” he asked.

  “Not from the bump.” She glanced at him over her fingertips and offered a wan smile. “Frustration.”

  He offered a smile. “Sooner or later this will come together.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “If Stocker is responsible for the deaths of our parents, who’s the anonymous caller and what’s his motivation?”

  Nick considered the question a moment and shook his head. “If Stocker was involved in the making of snuff films, maybe someone who knows about it wants him to pay.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. Why involve me?”

  “I don’t know.” But a chill formed at the base of his spine. “Maybe someone is using you to find something. Someone else is willing to kill to keep that from happening.”

  He didn’t miss the quiver that ran the length of her. “Do you think the man who assaulted me and the anonymous caller are two different people?” she asked.

  “Possibly. Two people. Two different agendas. That’s what we have to figure out.”

  Her gaze met his. He didn’t like the pale cast to her complexion or the way her hands shook slightly when she set them in front of her. “It’s been twenty years. I can’t help but wonder what the catalyst is.”

  “Maybe that’s one of the questions Blaine Stocker can answer tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  By ten o’clock the next morning, Nick and Sara had arrived in San Francisco, rented a car and were heading north on Hwy 101 toward the exclusive Sea Cliff neighborhood where Blaine Stocker and his wife lived.

  Having resided in California her entire life, Sara had seen some lovely homes. But when they turned onto 25th Avenue and the Stocker estate loomed into view, the stunning beauty of it took her breath away.

  Lush sago palms, eight-foot-high stucco walls and scrolled iron gates shrouded the sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion. As Nick stopped at the security gate, Sara could see past the mansion to the deep-blue water of the bay and, beyond, the span of the Golden Gate Bridge.


  “What do we tell security?” she asked, worried by the possibility that they’d traveled this far only to be turned away.

  “I’ll think of something,” Nick said and hit the intercom button.

  A tinny voice came over the line. “May I help you?”

  “This is Officer Nick Tyson with the Cape Darkwood PD. I’m here to see Blaine Stocker.”

  “I don’t see your name on the appointment list.”

  “I’m not on the list.” Nick paused. “You a cop?”

  “Former,” the voice said, with a little too much pride.

  “SFPD?”

  “Mark Lewinski. LAPD. Sixteen years.”

  “In that case, Mr. Lewinski, I suggest you check my credentials, pronto, unless you want me to come back with a warrant and an army of officers who will be happy to tear this place apart and cart your ass off to the station for a few hours.” He lowered his voice. “Just between you and me, I’d rather do this the easy way.”

  Silence reigned for perhaps a full minute, then Lewinski said. “I’ll call your department and get right back to you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Leaning back, he set his hands on the wheel and gave her a smile.

  “Effective,” she said.

  “It’s that cop brotherhood thing. Works every time.”

  Still, Sara couldn’t help but worry. Even if they got in, would Stocker speak to them?

  The gate jolted and groaned open. “Drive around and park beneath the portico at the front of the house,” came the tinny voice.

  “Roger that,” Nick said and drove through the gate.

  The house was set into a hill and surrounded with verdant trees. The creamy stucco contrasted nicely with the barrel-tile roof. It was one of the most spectacular homes Sara had ever seen.

  Nick parked and shut down the engine. A middle-aged man in a charcoal suit approached from the front door, ducked slightly to make eye contact with both of them, then opened Nick’s door.

  “Welcome to the Stocker estate.” It was the man from the intercom. “I’m Lewinski, head of security.”

  Nick slid from the car. “Thanks for making this easy for all of us.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’d rather discuss that with Mr. Stocker first.”

  Lewinski sneered.

  Sara got out of the car and met the two men as they stood near the driver’s-side door. Lewinski frowned at her when she approached.

  “This way.” He led them down a flagstone path toward the side of the mansion where a fountain spewed water high into the air and oleander bloomed in profusion. At a side door, Lewinski turned to Nick. “Raise your arms. Gotta pat you down.”

  Nick arched a brow, but did as he was told. “Does Mr. Stocker subject all his visitors to a frisk?”

  “Just the ones he doesn’t know.”

  The man turned to Sara. Her heart began to pound. She didn’t want to blow this, but she didn’t want him to touch her.

  “Take off your jacket and give him your bag,” Nick said to her as if reading her mind. He took her purse and handed it to Lewinski. “She’s clean,” he said.

  Frowning, Lewinski rummaged through the bag, even digging into the zipper pockets on the inside.

  When he was finished, Sara held up her jacket. “I’m not armed,” she said.

  Scowling, Lewinski took the jacket and quickly searched the pockets. Evidently convinced the pair were unarmed, he opened the beveled-glass door and ushered them inside.

  “This way.”

  He led them through a wide foyer adorned with fresh-cut flowers, a chandelier the size of a small car and marble-tiled floors as shiny as wet glass. From there they proceeded down a narrow hall with tall ceilings and arched doorways. Every inch of wall space was covered with framed photos of Hollywood celebrities. Sara took in a black-and-white shot of a handsome man in a white tux embracing a youthful Marilyn Monroe. James Garner in a cowboy hat and boots astride a beautiful spotted horse. Sara recognized Sharon Tate. Liza Minelli. There were dozens of other Hollywood big shots she didn’t recognize.

  Then they were standing in a huge room paneled in dark wood. Two walls were comprised of books. A hearth dominated the third wall. The west wall was constructed totally of mullioned-glass windows and a series of paneled French doors that opened to a patio that offered a stunning view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.

  A woman in a designer suit with tastefully coiffed silver hair stood at the window like some elegant sentinel. Sara guessed her to be well into her seventies, but she had a powerful presence. Dark, all-seeing eyes swept from Nick to Sara and then back to Nick.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” she asked in a deep and cultured voice.

  Nick stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Nick Tyson, Chief of Police up in Cape Darkwood.”

  An emotion Sara didn’t quite recognize flashed in the woman’s eyes as she accepted his hand. “Are you any relation to Nicholas Tyson, the true-crime writer?”

  “He was my father.”

  “You look very much like him.” A smile overtook her face, then she turned her attention to Sara. “And you?”

  “I’m Sara Douglas.” She shook the woman’s hand, taking in the firm grip and cool, thin skin.

  “My God, you’re the picture of Alex.”

  “You knew my parents?”

  “Everyone knows everyone in Hollywood, darling.” The woman lifted an elegant shoulder. “We ran in the same circles.”

  “You must be Channing Stocker,” Nick ventured.

  She gave them a regal smile. “May I ask what brings you all the way from Cape Darkwood?”

  “We’d like to ask Mr. Stocker some questions,” Sara said.

  The woman’s attention snapped to Sara. “What kind of questions?”

  “About something that happened twenty years ago,” Nick put in.

  Channing’s eyes narrowed. “Are you talking about the murder-suicide at the Douglas mansion?”

  “Is Mr. Stocker available?” Nick asked.

  The woman studied them for so long that Sara thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she turned with the grace of a dramatic actor and swept to the French doors and pulled them open. “I’m not sure how much help he’ll be. You see, he had a second stroke last month.”

  Sara stared at the frail old man sitting in the wheelchair. His spine curved so that his chin was nearly to his chest. A thin line of drool dribbled onto his silk smoking jacket. With the poise of a highly paid model, Channing strode to his chair, bent to blot the saliva, then positioned herself behind the chair and pushed him into the room.

  “He likes to sit in the sunshine and fresh air in the morning,” she said cheerfully. “The doctors say it’s good for him, so we sit out here as much as possible.” A small smile lit her mouth when she contemplated Sara and Nick. “Would either of you like a drink? Bloody Mary? Tequila Sunrise?”

  “It’s a little early for me, ma’am,” Nick said.

  Sara couldn’t take her eyes off the shrunken old man. Until this moment, Blaine Stocker had been a vague threat. Possibly guilty of unspeakable crimes.

  The man in the wheelchair wasn’t capable of any of those things. His body was frail and shrunken and bent. The left side of his face drooped slightly. An oxygen tube ran along both cheeks to his nose. But his eyes were the eyes of a much younger man. They burned with intelligence and a cunning that made gooseflesh rise on Sara’s arms. It was as if he were trapped within a body that had failed him.

  “Mr. Stocker, we’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right,” Sara said.

  His eyes landed on her. She nearly winced at the power of his stare. Recognition quivered inside her. She stared, knowing she’d met him at some point in her life, but unable to remember where or when.

  An arthritic finger moved and the motorized wheelchair drew closer. The old man gave a minute nod. It was still early in the day, yet Channing walked to the wet bar and poured orange juice an
d tequila into tall glass tumblers.

  “You can use those chairs if you like,” she said, motioning toward two wingback chairs sitting opposite a large mahogany desk.

  Nick dragged them to the wheelchair. Sara seated herself and Nick took the other so that they were both facing Blaine Stocker.

  “We were wondering if you could help us sort through some information,” Nick began.

  The old man’s eyes shifted to Nick. “What…information?” His voice was as rough as a saw chewing through wood. The left side of his mouth didn’t move when he spoke.

  “You were a director.” Smoothly Nick handed him a card. “I’ve enjoyed your films over the years. The Falcon at Midnight was my favorite.”

  “I liked The Dread,” Sara put in.

  The old man’s hand shook as he accepted the card, but his eyes lit up as if someone had flipped a switch. Within the depths of his gaze, Sara saw an odd mix of pride and ego. Because it was apparently difficult for him to speak, he nodded.

  Nick continued. “But there were other films, too, weren’t there, Mr. Stocker?”

  “What…films?”

  Nick removed several stills he’d had made from the snuff film they’d recovered at the mansion. “A…documentary, perhaps.”

  The old man’s gaze swept to the stills. His eyes widened. His mouth opened. His lips quivered. His frail body jolted.

  “We know about the women,” Nick said.

  The old man began to shake. “No.”

  Nick displayed the second still. A black-and-white depicting a terrible scene. “You made other films, too, didn’t you, Mr. Stocker?”

  “Not me…”

  “We have the film. The proof. We also have the notes.”

  The old man’s eyes rolled back white. “No…”

  Setting her drink on the desk, Mrs. Stocker strode quickly over. “How dare you come into my home and insult my husband?”

  “These are his,” Nick said.

  Channing Stocker bent to look at the stills. All color bled from her face, but her eyes remained strong. She leveled those eyes on Nick. “I don’t know why you’re here or what you think you know, but I want you to leave.”