The Dark Heart

by Julie Cave

  O’Toole cleared his throat. “Are you talking about the Holocaust?”

  “Yes, the belief that a certain race of people was the master race, that all others were invaluable. It led to the extermination of six million Jews, the extermination of the Roma Gypsies, and anyone of African descent. Eleven million died because of racism, sir. Do you think that’s harmless?”

  He realized that he was almost yelling now, and he hadn’t meant to. O’Toole hastily hung up and Angus thought that he’d probably just lost his most generous benefactor.

  He was beyond exhausted. He knew it wasn’t harmless. He knew from bloody experience that it wasn’t harmless. It seemed he could achieve no atonement for his sins. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried to change the minds of people who would happily describe others as subhuman, he would never succeed.

  ****

  Elise drove straight to Whitehall’s office and arrived unannounced. His secretary, Shana Woolcroft, glared at her with hot eyes. “Detective, he is in meetings all day today. You can’t just —”

  Elise ignored her and walked straight past her, Dinah following, into the office from which Whitehall worked. He was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. When he saw Elise and Dinah enter, he looked up. His face was tired and haunted, dark shadows like bruises underneath his eyes.

  Behind Dinah, Shana squeaked: “I’m sorry, sir, she just barged her way through!”

  “Thanks, Shana. It’s not a problem. Would you mind making us coffee, please?” His pleasant words belied the fear and anger on his face. A mottled purple flush crept across Whitehall’s face.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?” he asked. “I’m very busy, and I certainly don’t appreciate being interrupted like this.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Elise, and it sounded like she meant precisely the opposite. “Unfortunately, in the course of my investigation into the murders of two women, your name continues to crop up. It’s become imperative that I speak with you.”

  “I see.” He waited as Shana brought in a tray of coffee and poured them each a cup.

  Dinah poured creamer and sugar into her coffee. Elise continued, “On the phone I asked for your whereabouts on the night Lola was murdered. Where were you two nights ago?”

  Whitehall looked down at the desk calendar. “I had a . . . board meeting,” he said. “From seven until ten. Then I went home.”

  They hadn’t yet gotten the results of the autopsy, so Dinah didn’t know exactly when Lola had died. But the hours between ten and two were sufficient enough to strangle a woman and dump her body. Further, it would be unlikely Louise would testify against her husband if they asked her to disprove the alibi.

  “Now, if I recall correctly, you met Malia Shaw and Lola Albright at college?” began Elise. “Whereabouts was that again?”

  “At UC San Diego,” said the pastor. “As I’ve already mentioned.”

  “Indeed. Do you remember what year you attended that campus?”

  “It was about 20 years ago — probably in the mid-nineties, I suppose.”

  “And all three of you attended the same campus?”

  “Yes!” He put his cup down with a bang. “What has this got to do with —?”

  “Well,” interrupted Elise. “I spoke to the vice dean and there is no record of you, Malia Shaw, or Lola Albright ever having attended the college.”

  Whitehall pressed his lips together. “I’m sure that is simply a mistake.”

  “Perhaps it could be,” agreed Elise. “Though it would be a remarkable coincidence if the same mistake was made three times while searching for three different people, wouldn’t it?”

  Whitehall’s hands dropped to his lap. Probably to dance, thought Dinah. A square dance this time? What about some break dancing? A pop-and-lock?

  “Anyway,” said Elise, “as you might remember, I found some false identification documents in Malia’s apartment when I searched it, so I thought I’d check to see if any of those names popped up on the college’s database.”

  Whitehall suddenly blanched. “False identification?”

  “Now when the vice dean ran those names through her computer, one of them did pop up.” Dinah watched the pastor very closely. “The name Theresa Scott is listed as attending that college in the mid-nineties. Isn’t that interesting?”

  Whitehall couldn’t seem to find anything to say.

  “So it kind of lets you off the hook, though,” continued Elise, “because Malia did go to UC San Diego, as you said. But it was under a different name. When you met her, what name was she using?”

  “I’ve only ever known her as Malia Shaw,” said Whitehall. “If she went to college using a different name, I didn’t know about it.”

  “Really? Well, what name did you use to attend?”

  Whitehall’s face now turned an interesting pale shade of green. “I . . . I told you, it must be a mistake.”

  No mistakes here, Angus. Just all the lies you’re telling are adding up to one catastrophic mistake.

  “Well, let me continue. It might become clearer. We traced the false identification documents to a place in Richmond. Did you know that the FBI, who have been extremely helpful, could tell where a counterfeit document was made because each counterfeiter has their own unique way of doing it?”

  “I didn’t know that,” whispered Whitehall.

  “Fascinating, right? So the FBI traced the documents to an organized crime outfit up in Richmond. I couldn’t quite believe it. Why would Malia Shaw have links to an organized crime outfit?”

  Whitehall bravely tried to regroup. “Well, she was involved in drugs, so perhaps that’s where she got to know them.”

  “You think they made these documents for her?”

  He shrugged. “I guess if that’s where you traced the documents to, then that would make sense. Honestly, a woman involved in drugs — it’s hardly surprising that she might have encountered organized crime along the way.”

  Dinah almost felt like laughing in delight.

  “You are quite right,” agreed Elise. She was relentless. “Now, the organized crime outfit wasn’t particularly helpful. They hide behind a legitimate business, a talent agency. They wouldn’t confirm that the documents had been made by them, but I suppose we wouldn’t expect anything different.”

  “No,” agreed Angus. Some color was returning to his face. Perhaps he thought he would be okay.

  “What wonderful luck that the FBI has had the talent agency under surveillance for the best part of five years, obtaining evidence about their activities,” continued Elise.

  Whitehall went so pale he looked like the underbelly of a snake. “They — what?”

  “So it was just a matter of going through the tapes to see if Malia Shaw did in fact visit the talent agency. Of course, she didn’t.”

  Whitehall opened and closed his mouth. A marvelous rendition of a goldfish.

  “But you did.” Elise delivered the sucker punch and sat back, waiting.

  “I did what?” Sweat was glistening on the pastor’s forehead and his eyes had gone glassy. Somewhere inside his head, Dinah thought, he was desperately trying to make up a convincing story to explain all of these little inconsistencies.

  “Why would you visit an organized crime outfit to obtain false identification documents for Malia Shaw?” pressed Elise. “Why did Malia Shaw need false identification documents? Why would you help her get them?”

  “I . . . I . . . Listen,” said Angus. “I don’t know why she needed them. She just asked me for help, and I couldn’t turn her down. She seemed scared, for good reason, as it turns out. She told me where to get them from and asked me to do it for her. It was probably a dumb thing to do, but I really just thought I was helping out a friend in need.”

  Elise sighed in mock sorrow. “That all sounds wonderfully plausible, Mr. Whitehall. But there is still a small problem.”

  “What?”

  “Why is there no record of you attending UC San Diego? What na
me did you use to attend? Did you even go there, as you claim? Are you using a false name? Why did you lie about knowing Lola Albright in the first place?”

  Whitehall worked his mouth, his throat moving up and down, but no sound came out.

  “Well, Mr. Whitehall? Do you have anything to say?”

  He cleared his throat. “I want a lawyer.”

  ****

  Angus Whitehall waited until he was sure the detectives had left. Then he buzzed Shana. “I don’t want any more calls or visits,” he told her. She nodded and left his office. He locked it behind her.

  At his desk, he stared sightlessly at his desk calendar. All his overwhelmed mind could think was, What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

  First, Malia had been murdered, then, Lola. Was he next? He was the last of them to survive. Yet he had been the worst of the three of them — the leader, the captain. If any of them deserved to die, it was him.

  Outside, a chill winter wind howled, lashing tiny chips of sleet at the windows. The intermittent beat on the pane of glass reminded him of fingertips tapping him on the shoulder and whispering, We know who you are, we know what you’ve done.

  He shivered. He’d spent the past 20 years hiding, looking over his shoulder, pretending to be something he was not. He’d hidden behind the institution of marriage and family and church, though truth be told, he’d probably made their lives miserable. Yet his enemies had been waiting for him all along.

  Angus thought about what the detective had said: Malia had died in her desolate little apartment; Lola had been found in the snow in the middle of the night. Two lives, taken and carelessly thrown away. He knew he was supposed to care, to grieve even, but all he could do was curse them. It was their fault he was in the predicament. How could they have been so stupid to let themselves be caught like that, like rats in a trap?

  His old friend anger bloomed in his chest. Malia had always been weak. Her life was doomed the moment she met me, and thought I could save her from the place she’d come from. The things they had done had damaged her in a deep place, from which she had never been able to recover. Her love affair with heroin had commenced soon afterward. Once she had been found, it was just a matter of time for Lola and Angus.

  Time had caught up with Lola. She had been more cautious, less likely to get into trouble. But even she had followed him here. He should have made them all split up, knowing that Malia would have died long ago and Lola would probably have drifted into some kind of trouble. Her problem was that she’d always had poor judgment of a person’s character and she was sucked in by controlling, manipulative personalities. Angus was smart enough to know who he was: dominant, aggressive, and often cruel. He knew that’s why broken and vulnerable women became so attached to him. I use their devotion to my advantage. They give me their pathetic lives and puppy dog eyes, hoping for love. But I take what they give and I use it for myself. Still they followed me here, like a beaten dog that crawls back to its master.

  He often relived those glory days of his youth, when he was free to do as he pleased. He still remembered the rush of violence, the torrent of pleasure that swept through him. The high would be with him for days afterward. The anticipation of further violence filled him with wild joy. He remembered when he first met Malia, who’d been beautiful and haunted in those days, like a butterfly with a crushed wing. He recalled meeting Lola, who hid her vulnerability behind a facade of false bravado and confidence. He’d taken enormous pleasure in crushing Malia’s remaining, beautiful wing and destroying Lola’s wall. When laid bare in front of him, their pain and desperation raw and choking, he knew they were his to do with as he wished.

  Now, reality had intruded. Those days were long past, and the two women with whom he should have cut ties with years ago had put all their lives in danger. Dread settled like cement in his stomach, heavy and cold. Will my sin never be done with me? Why does it follow me everywhere I go?

  Of course, he knew the answer: the human heart is desperately wicked. Those who pretended otherwise had not experienced the depths of depravity to which seemingly normal people could sink.

  The urge to flee was strong, but he knew that he couldn’t. It wasn’t the right thing to do. And because his heart was changed, because he desperately wanted to be free, he knew he had to do the right thing.

  ****

  Dinah spent her lunch break looking over the meager finances of Lola Albright. Following her bank account and credit card transaction history, the money trail placed Lola in Norfolk, the last place she had been alive, according to the ATM records. She’d withdrawn all of the cash in her bank account at nine o’clock at night, near a movie theatre in the center of town. What happened to her after that was anyone’s guess. Had she been snatched from the street in Norfolk? Or had she returned home, only to fall into the clutches of her killer?

  Once she had finished looking through the bank statements, Elise decided to drive back to Lola’s duplex. “If she was anything like Malia, she would have fake identification documents hidden somewhere inside,” Elise said as they walked to the car.

  The sky was low and gray as Dinah climbed into the car, lending an oppressive feel to the cold air. The snow had since mostly vanished, leaving behind the occasional dirty scrap of ice that was too obstinate to melt.

  At the duplex, the side of the building in which the property owner, Ada Whittaker, lived in was locked up and quiet. Elise and Dinah slipped in through the front door using the murdered occupant’s keys. A stack of mail lay stacked up in the mailbox, and Dinah brought it in with her.

  Not much had changed in the sterile home, apart from a layer of dust. It told Dinah that Lola had fled a couple of weeks ago, perhaps sensing that her life was in danger, and hadn’t been back since. She hadn’t been back to collect her mail, to tell her landlord, or to resign from her job. She’d simply vanished — and then been found by the murderer.

  If she had fake documents, why didn’t she use them to escape?

  They had not found any fake identification in the murdered woman’s personal effects.

  Dinah looked carefully through the small duplex for any hiding places — behind the refrigerator, behind cupboards, in cracks or crevices, underneath floorboards, in the ceiling cavity. But she found nothing except a sneezing attack brought on by the dust she stirred up during her exploration.

  With a sigh, she sat down on the sagging couch next to Elise, who was looking through the mail. There were bills that were now overdue but unopened, and the usual assortment of junk mail.

  A hand-written envelope suddenly got Elise’s attention. She showed it to Dinah. A hand-written envelope! She wasn’t expecting that! Furthermore, it was made out to Rachel Sutton, their first possible clue to another of Lola’s identities.

  Carefully, Elise turned the envelope over so that they could see the return address.

  Flora Keenby

  10275 Hastings Rd

  Suffolk VA

  Dinah could feel excitement blooming within her as Elise withdrew the letter. This could be the bread in the case they needed. It was hand-written, in an old-fashioned cursive script.

  Dear Rachel,

  How are you, my dear? It feels like a long time since I spoke with you on the phone, and I’m having trouble connecting to your number. Have you changed it? It could be me — I’m an old lady still trying to understand how these new-fangled cell phones work!

  I hope you are well, dear? I’m doing well, considering I’m almost eighty. I have a touch of arthritis in my hands and I don’t see as well as I used to. I’m so thankful someone thought to put out audio books! I find it hard to read now, so I just pop on my earphones and listen to the book instead. Marvelous.

  I’d love to see you sometime. I’m afraid I get a little lonely these days. It’s a sad realization that I’ve outlived most of my family. But I still have you, and I hope you are healthy and happy.

  Please drop by or give me a call? I’d love to hear from you.

 
Your loving Gran

  Dinah re-read the note, glanced at her watch and met Elise’s eyes.

  “We have to go,” Elise said.

  “Yes,” agreed Dinah.

  Buzzing with anticipation, Dinah locked the duplex and they both raced to the car. Minutes later, they were on the way to Suffolk. This could be that vital moment when the final missing pieces of the puzzle dropped into place, and Elise’s impatience made her drive faster than usual. It would be late afternoon when they arrived, but Dinah hoped Lola’s grandmother had nothing else to do but be at home. Holding on in the passenger seat, her thoughts jittered around the strange relationship between Lola, Malia, and Angus. She wanted to call Aaron, to find out his thoughts on the case. She missed his razor-sharp mind, the way he could see past the inconsequential to the facts that really mattered. And she missed lazy conversations over coffee, and the hikes they took on weekends, and the kindness in his eyes when he looked at her. She missed the exploration of the Bible they undertook together. She missed his easy laugh and quick wit. I basically just miss Aaron, she realized.

  “Wake up, space cadet,” Elise said, with a laugh.

  With a start, Dinah saw they had arrived at Flora Keenby’s home. On a quiet, tidy street, Flora lived in a bungalow with flower baskets hanging in the front porch. Come spring, the baskets would be ablaze with color, Dinah thought. She took some deep breaths and climbed out.

  When Elise rang the doorbell, it took some time for the old woman to answer. Dinah could hear her shuffling from a room in the back. She swung open the door and peered at the two women through thick glasses. She was a small lady, hunched over and using a walking stick. It appeared the arthritis was worse than she’d admitted to in her letter.

  “I’m Detective Elise Jones, from the Ten Mile Hollow Sheriff’s Office, and this is Dinah Harris, a consultant and former FBI agent,” she began. “Are you Flora Keenby?”