Voices In The Walls: A Psychological Thriller (Michael Gresham Series)

by John Ellsworth

  Which is when Blue Eyes turns to me.

  "I thought that was you on the platform at Arlington," he says. "I'd know you anywhere."

  Now he's moved into my space and I can definitely smell the aftershave again. And those eyes! Good grief, I want to jump his bones right then and there.

  But I don't. After all, I'm dressed nice and feeling pretty and I'm on my way to my job. A job I have to keep if I don't want to live on the streets of Chicago. So I keep it together and give him a little smile.

  "Thanks for pulling that guy off me," I say. "But it wasn't the first time it's happened to me and probably won't be the last. I can take care of myself."

  "Yeah, it looked like you hammered him in the nuts. You were doing great until he maybe made a fist and maybe cold-cocked you. But you're welcome even if you don't know why."

  "I'm grateful. So—" this is where I ask for his name. But I restrain myself.

  "So—what's your name?" he asks me instead.

  "Noelle. What's yours?"

  "Feyn. Feynman is my full name. But everyone calls me Feyn, F-E-Y-N.”

  "It's pronounced like 'fine’?’’

  "Yes. Someone's idea of a joke, I guess. Blame my mother. So, where you headed?"

  "Northbrook. My second week.”

  "Insurance company?"

  "Yes. Is it that obvious?"

  He smiles and the entire room lights up. Those blue eyes sparkle and for an instant I forget where I am and forget that I'm thirty-five dollars away from sleeping at some mission.

  "Not obvious at all. It's just Northbrook. Everyone going there works for the Good Hands people."

  "What about you?" I ask, trying to recover from his smile.

  "I work downtown. Construction."

  He laughs and pulls his coat open. He's wearing coveralls, I see. Plus, he has a white hard hat clipped to his utility belt. Surprise, surprise.

  "Ironworker," he adds, and points at the ceiling. "Up there."

  "On top the car?"

  "Higher. We hang iron in the sky."

  "You build skyscrapers."

  "Something like that. Hotel this time. One hundred stories up."

  "Well, look, thanks for taking care of the guy, and—"

  He steps forward and lays a hand on my shoulder. I feel faint. "Can I bring that housewarming present by?"

  "You were serious?"

  He laughs. "Very serious. You need a plant in that room."

  "And you have a plant for me?"

  "I grow African Violets. One of my hobbies. I've got one set aside for you."

  "What—what—"

  "Hey, don't go all apeshit on me. It's just a plant. I'm not asking you out or anything."

  Then I manage to pull myself together. "That room could use a plant, I guess. I've never actually owned a plant, so it's a novelty for me."

  He removes his hand from my shoulder and gives me a sad—or wise, maybe—look. "You haven't owned a plant before. And that's too bad. Well, hey, no time like the present to correct that, okay? What say I come by after work? I'll bring Charlotte then."

  My heart falls. Charlotte, of course. There had to be another woman. My chin hits the floor.

  "Hey, don't come unglued. The plant's name is Charlotte. I name them all."

  Immediately my face lights up and I hate it for giving me away. God, I am so like obvious. "I would love to meet Charlotte. I'm sure I can give her a good home. Come at seven."

  "Seven it is," he says.

  And the train slows for my stop. The little room rocks forward and back and the doors whoosh open.

  The conductor hops out and puts a little stool down. It's all very cute and surreal. I've just run into the most beautiful man I've ever seen and he has smiled at me and he has touched me and he's giving me a plant.

  What a way to start my new life!

  15

  Michael

  Chicago Present Day - Day After Danny Disappeared

  Chicago PD handed off to the FBI and two agents took over. A federal court prisoner was possibly involved, that being Jana and his Civil Rights litigation, so the feds came onboard.

  They arrived on my front porch looking all bedraggled and middle-of-the-night, although it was Sunday morning and the sun was out. I asked them inside and coffee was poured.

  Cynthea Donaldson was a veteran of twelve years. Her title: Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Chicago. Her specialty was missing persons. Her partner, Hernando J. Ochoa, was from Puerto Rico and had been assigned to gang interdiction before reassignment to missing persons.

  Donaldson had worked missing persons out of the Palmer House before. Her previous cases emanating from the hotel had all closed out as domestic discord cases—those where one of the partners was caught with someone not their spouse and they ducked out and went "missing" for a day or two in an effort to cover their tracks. When she and Ochoa downloaded the CCTV video of the hotel's twenty-ninth floor, Saturday night, and Danny's exit from the hotel, they were not surprised at what they found. Which led them straight to me. They began with a series of questions.

  "Could you tell us what leads you've followed up on?" Agent Donaldson asked.

  "We've been making calls to Danny's friends and family but so far nada. No one knows anything, no one has heard from her, no one is aware of any problems she was having either at work or with any family member or friend."

  "We've even called men she knew before Michael," said Marcel. "They've been generally helpful and all of them establish that Danny has been out of their lives since before she met Michael. We haven't got a single actionable clue so far."

  "Maybe we can help," said Agent Donaldson. She arranged her laptop so the screen faced me. "We have video we'd like you to look at."

  "Let's see it," I said.

  She hit the play button. Danny Gresham was seen exiting the room alone. Donaldson played it again. Then in slo-mo. Then full speed yet again.

  "So," said Agent Donaldson, "I'm thinking your wife has left you. Is that possible?"

  I was in shock. Danny leaving our room alone in the middle of the night? She would never do that.

  "She would never leave me. We're not like that, Agent Donaldson. We're very much in love and very committed."

  "Well, if she's not leaving you, any ideas where she might be going? Did anyone call her?"

  "If they did, it didn't wake me up. It's possible, I guess."

  "What about the grandparents? You told us they were with the kids? Might they have called her?"

  "They might have, but they didn't. When I talked to them they were just as upset as me and they knew even less than I knew. Complete surprise to them."

  "So where does that leave us, Mr. Gresham?"

  I sat back and shook my head. "Shit," I said.

  "I know," said Donaldson. "She left of her own free will. You know what that does to the FBI's role in this case?"

  "You drop out?"

  The agent shrugged. "Afraid so. The missing person left voluntarily, under no apparent duress, of her own free will. If you find anything later on that refutes this, here's my card. You can get hold of me twenty-four/seven."

  I pushed her laptop back to her.

  "Will do. Do you have anything else? Anyone else you've spoken to?"

  She nodded. "Front desk people. Security people when we downloaded the CCTV feed. That's about it."

  "Is there a report or anything I could see?"

  "Not yet. But I'll email what I file when I file. Fair enough?"

  "Fair enough. Thank you."

  We shook hands all around and the agents let themselves out.

  We sat quietly after they were gone and stared at the table top.

  Then, "More coffee?"

  "Yes," I said. Marcel was like family. He served, then I served.

  While he was gone, I checked my email. I was surprised to learn that Agent Donaldson had already received and sent on another video. It was titled, Gresham. Art Institute.

  I clicked the vid
eo file and it started up. Then Marcel arrived with our coffees and I started it over.

  "Evidently the Art Institute sent this to the FBI. I had an altercation there with a guy I know is connected to Jana. Probably hired by Jana to assault me. Blond, green tattoo on the back of his hand. Hold on."

  "Shit, why didn't you say so? That could be critical. You should've told the FBI."

  "I know. I was thinking I might be in trouble. I started a fight with the guy."

  "So he came and kidnapped your wife?"

  "You heard the Fibbies. She doesn't look kidnapped at all. I know Danny. She would be kicking and screaming if someone tried to kidnap her. That's not what the video shows. There's no one else."

  "Unless he's down the hall out of camera range."

  "I hadn't thought of that. It's certainly a possibility because I'm just not buying she took off by herself. That's just not Danny."

  "Unless someone else called and threatened her children. She would leave without resistance if they did that," Marcel said.

  I looked at him. He didn't look away. He was absolutely right. If they told her they had her kids, she would always put them first. What we were seeing was not the whole story. Not by a mile.

  I clicked and brought the hotel video to the screen. This time we watched it three times and strained to see anyone just out of range, which was ridiculous but we tried it anyway, looking for any kind of clue, a shadow, anything.

  I brought up the Art Institute video again. This time I let it play start-to-finish.

  What we had was an unedited version of the CCTV video taken inside the Institute's entrance foyer, and a second camera that recorded the actual fight between me and the young man. Clearly I struck him first. Then the follow-up when he lunged at me, catching me in the chest with his shoulder. I went down easy but with enormous force, slamming down on my backside, and then my head popping against the tile. My eyes were closed as the guy kicked me in the ribs and face. Finally, Danny lunged at him and got her arm around his throat. He reached around and lifted her away and set her on her feet. She made no further attempts to restrain him and he made no further efforts to injure me. I was still on the floor, now lying on my side, my back to them. Then he turned and jogged out of the camera's view.

  We played it twice more.

  Then, "Boss, I was thinking—"

  "It's okay, Marcel. I see it too. Right now I'm too shaken to even think about it."

  "This guy doesn't want her hurt. He could have thrown her off his back and snapped her neck."

  "Yes. He was not out to hurt her. He was after me."

  "Does she know the guy?"

  "You mean have they already approached her and she hasn't told me?"

  "Something like that, yes."

  Marcel looked right at me. Then he said, "I wouldn't have believed this if I hadn't seen the video."

  "There must be some kind of duress we don't know about. Danny wouldn't give this clown the time of day."

  "No, not under normal circumstances, Boss."

  "He's got something on her when she jumps him. He doesn't even react, just sets her down."

  Marcel said, "He's threatened the kids and she has no choice but to go along."

  Rolling this around in my mind, I sat back and rubbed my face. A swallow of coffee.

  "What about Gunnar Mendelssohn?" I asked just to confirm what I thought I knew. "Have you made any headway with the guy?"

  Marcel opened his hands. "There is no such guy. He doesn't come up anywhere—no driver's license, no utilities, no banks, no credit cards, he just doesn't exist. Did you ever see any ID?"

  "No."

  Marcel asked, "Did she think to check with ARDC, see if he's licensed in Illinois to practice law?"

  "No. She wouldn't have done that. Guy tells her he's a lawyer with so-and-so, who's going to doubt? We don't look everyone up."

  "But you said earlier you called Natty Day?"

  "Yes, I called the Day law firm. Talked with Natty himself. He's never heard of Gunnar Mendelssohn even though Danny met the guy in one of Day's back hallways."

  "That proves the guy knew how to trespass without getting caught. Not much of a character reference, there," Marcel said with a twist in his voice. He wasn't being sarcastic, just observing like Marcel does.

  "Marcel, I'm thinking the guy doesn't even exist except in Danny's head. Her imagination is going wild."

  "What? Seriously?"

  "Seriously."

  "Let me think about that."

  "And let's continue to think through this mess."

  "Hey, what about the bag she took to the hotel with her?"

  "Left it in the room. Took her purse."

  "Took her purse? That kind of clinches it, doesn't it? Sounds planned." He looked at me.

  I could only shrug. "Are you saying maybe it's none of this, that she's just left me?"

  "I'm ruling things out. What about other stuff she keeps around here? Anything precious, old stuff belonging to her mom or grandmother?"

  "Well, there's her mother's class ring from Louisiana. She gave it to Danny after Danny graduated there too. Mom wore it thirty-eight years. Danny treasured it."

  "Now that's worth looking for. Let's check her jewelry box."

  "Let's."

  Marcel followed me into our bedroom. It was a large room, L-shaped with a dressing area along the base of the L. Here was where her desk and dressing table were set side-by-side. I lifted the lid on one of three jewelry boxes there. Number one, no class ring. Number two, no class ring. Number three: mother's class ring.

  "So she didn't go to the hotel planning on leaving you."

  I looked up, startled.

  "Sorry to be so blunt, but we need to rule out everything, Michael."

  "You know what I've been like. You've seen me with Danny. You have your impressions."

  "You know, I worked for Interpol and Scotland Yard for quite some years. I've seen everything, Michael. I'm just being methodical here."

  "All right. But Danny would never give in to Jana's games."

  "She would if she thought he had her kids. She'd do anything he said."

  "But he doesn't have the kids. He says on the video he wants Mikey."

  "Okay, maybe he's threatened to harm them. That gets her to play along."

  "Never. Danny would never play along."

  "Unless he threatened her kids and she believed he could do it."

  "All right. I'll give you that. But that's not what's happening here, Marcel. I know my wife better than that."

  A thought occurred to me and I ran to my laptop and brought up our online bank accounts. Cleaned out. I had less than two-hundred dollars to my name. I changed accounts in a panic: the office accounts were still intact, all accounted for. But my personal checking and personal savings were emptied, a total amount had disappeared right at $120,000, give or take. This money was actually gone with two EFT's. My speculation ran wild, and I imagined our money now occupying a numbered account in Zurich. Jana would do something like that.

  Marcel, peering over my shoulder, groaned.

  I collapsed in my desk chair.

  "It's all surreal," I told him. "I've never felt so scared. And so powerless."

  "I'm sure."

  "So what do I do?"

  He paused and bit his lip. Then, "We have to call the FBI back."

  "And do what?"

  "Come clean. Talk to them about the fight—they’ve seen it already. We can't do this alone."

  "Do you have her card? I'll make the call."

  Minutes later I was on the line with Agent Donaldson.

  They were turning their car around.

  16

  Danny

  25 Years Ago

  My supervisor is a woman named Evelyn Pergola and she's kind one minute then harsh the next. So of course I don't know what to make of her.

  She has placed me in a room divided into forty cubicles. My cube is located on the inside wall, right next to the restroom d
oor so there's constantly someone going by and swinging open the door or someone coming out and swinging open the door. It's noisy and distracting. Plus, my nose is extra-sensitive and I think I can smell bathroom smells. Note to self: Do a great job and get moved out of here. This cube is the suckiest of all.

  My typewriter is one of those with a magnetic card and tiny screen that makes me squint. Everything feels ancient, including insurance forms I'm supposed to fill out with accident info. We actually key in accident reports by hand.

  All morning, Evelyn walks by about every thirty minutes and asks whether I need anything and my answer is the same each time. I smile and shake my head and keep typing as if I'm afraid they're going to find out I'm a fraud and fire me. Forget it. I keep my hands moving and try not to be distracted by the revolving restroom door. At ten-thirty, Evelyn tells me I should go to the cafeteria for my break and help myself. The company pays for all food and all drinks.

  I go down two floors and find the cafeteria. It's huge and has islands and islands of food and drinks. There's a Polynesian island, an Asian island, a Mexican island, a French island, a natural foods island and so forth.

  I pick out two hard-boiled eggs. I'm picking protein because I didn't spend money on food before I hopped on the train and I'm starving. I don't normally drink coffee, but today I fill a cup half full of Folger’s and the rest of the way with half-and-half. I figure I'll be supercharged by noon and shaking from all the caffeine. But it will help me keep productive.

  By noon I have entered four fender benders and two rear-enders into the insurance company file cabinets. Half the coffee is gone and the bagel has been inhaled. While I'm typing, I can't help thinking about Feyn. Those eyes and that hair. That thin shadow of a beard and those even white teeth. I close my eyes and try to imagine him on his motorcycle with me holding on behind, my face pressed against his back and inhaling him. I come very close to lapsing into a full-blown fantasy and forgetting where I am and what I'm supposed to be doing. So I pull back. Let's see, Jonathan Marsh ran a red light and creamed the side of Angelo Betuccini's Volvo. My company insures Jonathan and—

  Then it's five o'clock and I join the herd in the march to the train platform. Arlington is thirty minutes west. All the time I'm on the train I keep looking around for Feyn. It wouldn't surprise me to have him walk up behind me and tap me on the shoulder, but no such luck.