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

by John Ellsworth

  "Where to?"

  "I don't know. We're looking for a man."

  Bashar smiles a sly smile. "A particular man or just any man will do?"

  "No, we're looking for my husband."

  Bashar nods and keys the address I give him into his GPS; then we're off. We hook a left onto Washington Street and shoot north. I guide us back to the Holiday Inn Express where I spent the night with Jana. "Wait here, please," I tell Bashar and shuffle inside with my walker. Up to the front desk, where I wait behind two other patrons until it's my turn.

  "My husband and I stayed here a month or two ago," I tell the blond at the counter, a young, heavyset woman whose name tag says, "Mandy, Ames, Iowa."

  Mandy gives me a dumb stare. "You're needing the date? Is that it?"

  "No, I'm needing our address. My husband's name is Jana Emerich."

  She gulps from a coffee cup that says, "Adventures In Sleeping." She then keyboards and waits. She looks up at me. "Do you have proof you're the wife?"

  I peel off a hundred dollar bill and slide it across the counter. "Will this do?"

  Without a word, the girl recites the address Jana gave when he checked us in.

  "Write it down, please," I request.

  A minute later, I have my home address.

  "You wouldn't make that two hundred would you?" Mandy asks.

  I keep my voice low but pleasant. "Why not?" I say, sending another Benjamin across the counter. "This one is to make sure you erase our home address. There's a man who might come looking and he cannot be allowed to find me."

  "Done," says Mandy. "I'm erasing you in the system right now."

  "Then we're even," I say. "Thank you."

  "Anytime."

  I return to my cab and climb inside. I pass the Post-It to Bashar. "Can you find it?"

  Bashar keys the address into his GPS. "Done," he says in seconds. "Go there now?"

  "Yes, but when we get there, don't slow down. Just pull by slowly and let me have a look."

  "You've got it."

  "But first I need the Madison County Coroner's office. Quick stop there. Look it up, please."

  Bashar drives us to the Madison County Coroner's Office. He pulls up to the front curb and lets me clamber out. I am disappearing inside by the time he locates an empty slot and parks.

  I study the lobby directory. RECORDS is up one floor, so I find the elevator and punch 2.

  Through the double doors I lunge with my walker, and this time a young police officer holds the door for me and smiles. I thank him and beat him up to the counter.

  Behind the glass top waits a young, nervous-looking man whom I guess is all of twenty-one years. He's popping gum with his protruding teeth and rubbing the palm of his right hand up and down his cheek and then studying the hand.

  "Erasing yourself?" I ask with a smile.

  He gets it. "I am," he says with a devilish grin. "I'm actually a cartoon character."

  "My name is Dania Emerich. And I want to pay you two thousand dollars."

  The young man shoots a look around. "Who do I have to kill?"

  "Who I'm interested in is already dead."

  "That works even better," says the clerk. "What comes next?"

  I draw a deep breath. "I have a very mean husband looking for me. He wants to kill me. I need you to help me make him believe I'm already dead."

  "You want me to put your name on one of our Jane Does, right?"

  I smile my best smile. "Exactly. And I want you to put this purse and my ID into her effects box."

  "I can do that. First let me see the two grand. I'm very particular about who I help commit fraud."

  I turn my back to the TV cameras overhead and reach inside my scrubs and pull out my wad. I count out the two thousand and pass it across the counter. As I do this, the young guy makes several quick entries into the agency computers and then reaches across and takes the purse that holds my ID, driver's license, and personal effects I would normally have with me.

  "Wait five," he says, and disappears out the back. I stand to the side and appear to be busy reading the notices on the wall.

  Minutes later, the clerk returns. He gives me a thumbs up and winks.

  "Done," he reports.

  "You have someone who fit my description?"

  "She's white, about your height and she staggered out of a night club into the street and a car smashed into her. Her facial features were damaged and not even a picture was in the file, not of her face, at least."

  I rock back, smiling at my helper. "I could reach over and kiss you," I say to him.

  "I'm into MILFS," he says blankly. "Should we hook up?"

  "No, it was just a figure of speech."

  "That's cool, too. I just want you to be happy. Two grand is a lot of money. I can go back to school this fall."

  "Oh, I'm happy. Thank you."

  "You're welcome. It's not the first time I've done this."

  "It's not?"

  "That's all I can say. I've said too much already."

  "Then we'll leave it at that. One more thing. How long will it take me to get a death certificate for myself?"

  "That will be in your file this afternoon. They're quite good about signing off and getting customers moved out of here."

  "Then I'll be back."

  "You don't have to. You can access it online. Let me give you the password."

  "And I need a sheet of letterhead."

  "Letterhead from the Coroner's office? I can do that." He reaches beneath the countertop and retrieves a sheet of paper. I see it is letterhead and eagerly accept it from the clerk. He has positioned his body so as to block the CCTV camera overhead. I have the feeling he’s accepted bribes before.

  "Anything else?"

  "An envelope."

  He bends down and quickly provides a new envelope with the coroner's address in the upper left-hand corner.

  I am floored. This is even easier than I would have believed. I accept the death certificate password written on the business card of the coroner himself. Tucking it into my scrubs pocket, I thank my helper again and make my way out.

  I push the walker back to the car as if I'm merely walking the aisles buying cereal.

  "Bashar, I need an office for a couple of hours. Any idea where we can rent one?"

  "What's it for?"

  "I need to write a letter and mail it off."

  "Snail mail?"

  "Yes."

  "So you need a computer and a printer? Is that all?"

  "Yes."

  "We go to my place. You can use my laptop and my laser printer. But it costs money."

  "How much are you charging?"

  "One hundred."

  "Done. Let's go now."

  "We're on our way."

  It's a seedy part of town, an area where, I know, it would be unsafe to go out walking at night. I'm glad it's broad daylight when I follow Bashar through the back entrance of the apartments. I am particularly relieved that his unit is located on the first floor, a studio with a laptop set up on the breakfast bar. I climb up onto the stool and Bashar swings the laptop around so the screen faces me. He leans across me, types in a password, and brings up Word for my letter.

  I begin typing.

  TO: SURVIVING SPOUSE OF DANIA EMERICH-GRESHAM

  FROM: RONNIE MENENDEZ, MADISON COUNTY CORONER

  SIR: YOUR WIFE HAS NOW BEEN IDENTIFIED BY HER PERSONAL EFFECTS AND FINGERPRINTS ON FILE WITH THE ILLINOIS STATE BAR ASSOCIATION. HER REMAINS MAY BE COLLECTED AT THE MADISON COUNTY MORGUE, LOCATED AT 101 EAST EDWARDSVILLE ROAD, WOOD RIVER, ILLINOIS 62095. YOU MAY ALSO LOGIN TO OUR WEBSITE AT THE ADDRESS BELOW AND OBTAIN HER DEATH CERTIFICATE. USE THE PASSWORD FOLLOWING THE WEB ADDRESS.

  IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS, PLEASE CALL THE NUMBER AT THE TOP OF THIS LETTER.

  Next, the letter is printed on the sheet of letterhead the counter clerk provided.

  I ask Bashar to take us to Jana's house. We stop at a Target and I grab a change of clothes, nothing fancy. The sc
rubs I leave in the changing room. Then we're back on the road to Jana's address.

  "Park around the corner," I tell him a block away. "I don't want anyone inside to see the cab."

  Bashar parks as directed.

  "Now take this letter and go to his house and put it inside the storm door. Then ring the doorbell and run."

  I wait while Bashar trots off. Five minutes later he returns, breathing hard. He jumps into the driver's seat and screeches away from the curb.

  "What is it?"

  "He opened the door immediately and caught me standing there. I handed him the letter and left."

  "Did you run?"

  "Only when he couldn't see me anymore. I walked, up to there."

  "Good man. Let's get the hell out of Dodge."

  Bashar drives us up over the train tracks two blocks south and then we're gone, lost in freeway traffic.

  By now, I know, Jana will believe me dead. He will acquire my death certificate and the insurance company will make good. Then he will have his money and will be done with me.

  He won't see me coming. I touch the swollen lumps on my face where he beat me. They aren’t being absorbed and going away like the doctors said they would. He has probably marked me for life. And inside—he has done even worse damage to my feelings. I am wracked with fear every night when I climb into bed, hardly able to grab even fifteen minutes of sleep for fear he will find me while I am sleeping and rape and beat me.

  A Vietnamese girl, Trang Anh Nguyen, is waiting out there somewhere. And I haven't forgotten my promise. Michael wouldn't allow me to go to the girl and set her free; Jana would kill me if I tried. And my own kids? Every day is bringing me closer to seeing them again. But to ensure their safety, Jana must die. This is a must before I return to my children.

  I tell Bashar to stop at a FedEx office. Inside, I arrange to have a copy of the Madison County Coroner's Office letter delivered to Michael Gresham, Chicago, Illinois. Delivery is guaranteed before 10 a.m. the next day.

  Then I am done.

  Both husbands will believe I am no more. The deceit won't work once they check me out against the coroner's actual records and video, but it's enough for now.

  There is a great freedom in death.

  47

  Jana and Niles

  "I'm looking for my wife," Jana Emerich said to the operator at the Madison County Coroner's Office.

  "Her name?"

  "Dania Emerich."

  "Have you called here previously?"

  "Yes, yesterday."

  "I thought I remembered that name. Yes, we have a Dania Emerich."

  "Can I see her?"

  "She was actually cremated. On someone's orders."

  "Whose orders?"

  "Let me look." She moved off and then returns. "The signature is unreadable. But the name is Michael Gresham."

  There was a long silence before Jana continued.

  "Well, do you have unidentified bodies I could look at?"

  "We always have bodies we're trying to identify, yes, sir. It would be best if you brought us a picture of your wife. That way we have a face to compare."

  "Compare to a dead body?"

  "That's right. A death photo."

  "All right. I'll bring her picture."

  "Sorry we can't help more right now. Which is actually a good thing, isn't it?"

  "Is it?" he said abruptly and threw his phone against the wall. "Son of a bitch!" he cried. Across the table sat Niles, who was nursing a wine cooler and dodging cell phones.

  "Easy, big guy," Niles said, trying to calm his boss. "We'll find her yet, Jana. Give me a picture and I'll run it by."

  "Son of a bitch!" Jana cried again. "That's just it! I don't have any pictures of the bitch!"

  "Who knew?"

  "Exactly. Why would I take the picture of someone I was only going to kill?"

  "Don't worry. Call the hospital and tell them I'm dropping by for a file photo. That's all we need."

  "Good thinking," Emerich said, and retrieved his cell phone. He made the call when he returned to the table.

  Niles finished his drink and headed out to his car. Which left Jana alone in the house, at the table, arms crossed, imagining scenarios in which his wife, having been run over and left for dead, would wind up cremated before he could identify her. It had happened so fast.

  Then it occurred to him that all was not lost. If she were in fact dead—and she was, according to the coroner—he had a big pile of insurance money coming.

  Suddenly his day brightened as if the sun had penetrated a heavy overcast just to please him.

  He began dialing his insurance agent. He cleared his mind, knowing that he was going to have to play the part of the bereaved husband.

  While he tried to hide the biggest smile of his life.

  48

  Jana and Niles

  Jana was gleeful to find he could obtain a death certificate online. So he followed instructions and now possessed a PDF. He clicked PRINT and sat back from his machine.

  Two hours later, he was sitting in the office of his insurance agent, Ilene Morrison. Ilene finally got off the phone and waved Jana over to her desk.

  "I was very sorry to hear about your wife's death," the agent said. "How are you holding up?"

  "Up and down. Stop and start. Some days are definitely better than others. Can you help me?"

  She studied him with her dark green eyes. He got the immediate impression that something was awry. Her look said there was more to come, and she replied to his request for help, saying, "I could have. At least until this morning. Let me show you what I received in today's mail, Mr. Emerich."

  She withdrew a fawn colored letter from her file and slid it across her desk. "Dear Agent—" it began. He read the rest of it. Then re-read it.

  "Well?" said insurance agent Morrison. "Can you explain why I would receive a letter from your wife telling me she's not dead? And the allegations: she says you tried to murder her! I've already called the police, Mr. Emerich, and they're sending someone over. A detective Tingo. I trust you will wait to speak with him. I know you want to straighten this out as much as we do."

  Jana was instantly on his feet. Without a word, he turned and fled the office, cursing as he went.

  "—Bitch!" he cried as he made his way back down the sidewalk toward his car. "Dirty, loser bitch!"

  He jumped into the passenger’s seat and told Niles to start driving.

  "Where, boss?"

  "Just drive!"

  Niles pulled away from the curb and drove around the block.

  "No, get the fuck away from here! The cops are looking for me already!"

  "What happened?"

  "The bitch is alive and she wrote my insurance agent telling her so. Now they called the police."

  "They've got your address in the file—"

  "Don't go home! Just keep driving."

  "I don't get it. We couldn't find her in any hospital. We know she did time in some hospital somewhere."

  "For sure she did. Somebody took her in and registered her under a fictitious name. They hid her from me!"

  "Which means you've already got someone looking for you."

  "She said they were sending Detective Tingo to investigate. Something tells me he already knows Danny."

  "Maybe he hid her in the hospital."

  "Oh, my God!" Jana exclaimed. "Do you suppose he's been following us?"

  "I suppose that's entirely possible," said Niles. "I'm not surprised. I'm sure her husband's been after her and making the cops search heaven and hell for her."

  “I’m sure he is, the bastard.”

  "We need to head back to Chicago. We can't stay here anymore. Besides, there's no way they're paying for her death now. No reason to stay around Alton."

  Emerich was nodding. "Totally agree. I've got my laptop in back. We leave everything else and head out now."

  "Yes, I'll stop for gas and then just keep heading north. What about your place in Chicago? Anyone have
that address?"

  "No, definitely not. Unless her husband has located it. That's always possible, the bastard. He's very persistent, Niles. Very."

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

  "We hit him? And his kids? Payback for this bitch screwing me out of five million dollars? She's got it coming."

  "We know his house. I say we make it our first stop."

  "Heat?"

  "Berettas in the trunk. Four boxes of ammo. Way more than we're going to need."

  "Be prepared."

  "Exactly."

  They took state route 140 over to Interstate 55 and began heading north. Chicago was four hours away. Michael Gresham's home was thirty minutes beyond.

  "How do you nail the woman?" Niles asked once they were on the freeway.

  "Shoot her rug rats. That'll bring her running."

  "So, let me get this straight. She dies and the insurance claim is still good for the five million, or what?"

  "We're going to need a lawyer for that. But as long as our fingerprints aren't on any of it, if she dies I've got a policy on her life. Why shouldn't they pay me?"

  Niles slapped the steering wheel.

  "Why shouldn't they!" he whooped.

  He tromped the accelerator and the SUV lurched ahead toward the Windy City.

  49

  Danny

  "Don't lose them but don't get too close, Bashar," I tell my new friend, my taxi driver.

  Bashar has loaded up with Ding Dongs at our last stop for gas. Jana and Niles pulled in at a Redi-Stop and we followed, parking on the far pumps while I remained inside the cab. Bashar unwraps yet another and munches down a mouthful. He wipes the back of his sleeve across his eyes. It is late and we're both tired, but Jana hasn't slowed or veered from his beeline to Chicago and we don't want to lose them. So we're driving nearly non-stop too.

  "Who are these people to you?" Bashar asks as the roadway flashes by.

  I sigh. "It's a long story. The one driving is Niles Scoburg. He's an ally of Jana Emerich, the man riding shotgun. Emerich is the man who came to pick me up from the first hospital after I was in a huge car wreck. He presented his case and proved he's my husband. So the hospital let me go home with him. I was happy at first, but then I found out he was importing girls from Asia and forcing them into the sex trade. I'm talking very young girls, some as young as twelve. So he's a terrible, terrible criminal to say the least. He also tried to kill me for insurance money. That's a whole other story. Oh, one other thing. He also made me act in porno movies. Quite a guy, no?"