Midnight Voices

by John Saul

  But now he had at least a dozen more names of people he’d have to track down to see if any of them had seen someone who hadn’t been at the party. He figured the odds on that one at close to zero, but knew he’d have to go through the motions anyway.

  Just before lunch he’d gone to Costanza’s office to talk face to face with everyone who’d worked with her. The only person he’d figured could have had anything to do with it was the geek who worked in the cubicle next to hers, but the longer he talked to the guy—his name was Rosenberg—the less convinced he was. The guy had liked Costanza, but Oberholzer hadn’t picked up any vibes at all that the relationship had gone much past the office-buddies stage. Dinner together every now and then, but that was about it.

  “What about this guy Humphries?” the detective had asked as he was winding up the interview with Rosenberg. “Any idea what that appointment was about?”

  Rosenberg’s head had bobbed. “She went to see him about one of her cases—a little girl who lives in The Rockwell.”

  “Foster parents in The Rockwell? Some kids get all the luck, hunh?”

  To Oberholzer’s surprise, Rosenberg had shaken his head. “Andrea was worried about the girl, and wanted to talk to her doctor, who also happens to live in The Rockwell. And the doctor didn’t cooperate.” As Frank Oberholzer had listened silently and scribbled a few notes, Nate Rosenberg recounted the conversation he’d had with Dr. Humphries Monday morning.

  “So what do you think?” the detective asked when he was finished. “Did he sound like he was pissed at Costanza for wanting to see the kid’s records?”

  Rosenberg shrugged. “Not particularly—he sounded more like he was just making sure everything was done right before opening a patient’s records. And he’s right—he could get sued if he just opened them up.” He hesitated, and Oberholzer instantly knew there was something else.

  “What is it?” he prompted.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Rosenberg replied. “But Andrea didn’t like Humphries.”

  He fell silent, and Oberholzer prompted him again, not quite so gently. “You wanta tell me about it, or do I have to play a guessing game?”

  Rosenberg held his hands up almost defensively. “There’s not that much—Andrea just didn’t think much of some of Humphries’ ideas, that’s all. I mean, he’s an osteopath and a homeopath, and Andrea isn’t—” He caught himself, and adjusted the tense. “—Andrea wasn’t very impressed. She wasn’t much for alternative medicine.”

  Oberholzer scratched behind his ear with the end of his pencil. “Think she would have let him know that?”

  “Hard to say,” Rosenberg said, shrugging. “If she did, Humphries didn’t mention it. All he was concerned about was that she have the right authorizations before he’d give her a look at the Mayhew girl’s medical records.”

  Oberholzer had picked up the pastrami sandwich on the way back to the office, and as he stuffed the last bite into his mouth with one hand, he fished in the jumble on his desk for Andrea Costanza’s address book. Years of experience had taught him that with an address book, the best thing was to call the newest entries first—old friends didn’t often kill each other, but new friends could be unknown quantities. Paging through the book, he searched for entries that looked fresh.

  On the ‘E’ page, he came across an entry that had been scratched out entirely, obliterated by an impenetrable layer of black ink as if she’d crossed it out with a laundry marker or something. Well, the lab could probably sort that out if it came down to it. Then, on the next page, he saw what was obviously a new entry for a Caroline Fleming, with a work number and a home number.

  He frowned, then picked up the Day-Timer and flipped through it until he came to the page marked with the notation ‘Caroline’s wedding.’

  So Caroline wasn’t a new friend—just a new listing for an old friend with a new last name.

  He went back to the address book, going through it from start to finish, but other than the entry for Caroline Fleming, nothing else stuck out as new; indeed, most of the entries made in what looked like the freshest ink were extra phone numbers and e-mail addresses. But even as he went through it again, he kept going back to his conversation with Nathan Rosenberg, and finally he found a copy of the yellow pages and leafed through it until he found the listing for Dr. Theodore Humphries.

  On the fourth ring, an answering machine picked up and a deep voice informed him “I am out of the office until two. If you wish, you may leave a number and I shall return your call.” Deciding he didn’t wish, Oberholzer hung up, but as he went back to the address book—and the task of calling every one of the numbers—he kept thinking about the message he’d just heard on the telephone. There had been a strange note not only in the voice, but in the choice of words as well. ‘If you wish . . .’ ‘I shall return your call.’ The phrases had sounded stilted, and the voice that delivered them had sounded—at least to Oberholzer’s ears—a bit arrogant.

  But so what?

  Weren’t a lot of doctors arrogant? But if Andrea Costanza had challenged this particular arrogant-sounding doctor on either his credentials or his refusal to let her see one of his patient’s files, how would he have reacted?

  Deciding he’d rather talk to the doctor in person than on the phone, he turned Andrea Costanza’s address book over to one of the newest additions to the squad, a rookie named Maria Hernandez who’d just been promoted to detective last month. “Start calling these people,” he said. “See what you can find out about who might have been mad at Andrea Costanza. You’re a woman—gathering gossip should be right up your alley.” He turned around and headed out of the squad room, apparently oblivious to the venomous look Maria Hernandez gave him.

  Caroline woke up slowly, her mind foggy, strange dreamlike images swirling through her mind. Tony was there, and Virginia Estherbrook, and Melanie Shackleforth and all the other neighbors. But they didn’t look right—they were dressed in old-fashioned clothes, and they looked younger than they were.

  Then, as rifts in the fog appeared, she began to catch glimpses of what had happened. It wasn’t a dream at all—she’d been in Tony’s study, searching through his desk and—

  —and he’d almost caught her!

  The memory of the fear she’d felt when she couldn’t get the study door re-locked even as her husband was coming through the front door sent a chill through her, and she reflexively snuggled deeper into the warmth of the bed.

  But why had she been so afraid of him? All she’d found were pictures of the neighbors. Then, as more of the curtains of fog began to fall away, she remembered the other pictures—the pictures of children, even her children. Dozens of them, some with faces circled as if they’d been chosen for something.

  Chosen for what?

  But an answer was obvious, even through the remnants of mist that still clouded her mind, making her thoughts sluggish and so tenuous they slipped away before she could quite grasp onto them: Tony was some kind of pervert.

  Could that really be the truth?

  Had she married a child molester, and brought her children—Brad’s children—into his home?

  Was that why Ryan hated him—because he’d sensed that there was something wrong? But that couldn’t be it—Ryan’s dislike for Tony hadn’t been instant; it had grown as her own relationship with Tony began to grow, and as Tony had begun to slip into the position in Ryan’s life that had been occupied by his father. Surely it was nothing more than the natural resentment felt by any boy whose father is being replaced by a stranger. And it wasn’t that way with Laurie—Laurie liked Tony, and had never shown any fear of him at all. So maybe she herself was wrong.

  Maybe the pictures didn’t mean anything at all.

  She grasped at that weak straw of self-doubt, terrified that if she couldn’t cling to it, couldn’t somehow make it support her, she would drown in the sea of questions the contents of the desk had raised about the man she’d married.

  Or maybe she shouldn’t
even look for answers. Maybe she should simply pack a few things into a suitcase, take the kids, and get out.

  The kids!

  Where were they?

  What time was it?

  She started to sit up, but a terrible dizziness struck her, and she fell back to the pillow, closing her eyes. What had happened?

  Was she sick?

  The last of the fog cleared away, and she remembered the words she’d made up when Tony had found her in the hall, her skin clammy, her face pale. Flu—that was what she’d told him.

  And he’d called Dr. Humphries.

  She’d tried to protest, but he’d insisted, and by then she was so deep into the lie of feeling ill that there was no way to refuse. Dr. Humphries had come, and brought his black bag—the same bag he’d brought when he came to see Laurie, and he’d taken her temperature, and checked her pulse, and tried to reassure her. “It’s probably nothing—your pulse is a little fast, but your temperature’s normal. Still, better to be safe than sorry.” He’d dug into his bag and found one of his remedies—a small vial of white pills that he’d instructed her to put under her tongue. She’d lain back on the pillows, planning to lie there for only a few minutes, then get up, claiming that Dr. Humphries must have been right—whatever it was had passed, and she felt fine. Except that she’d fallen asleep, and now that she was awake, she didn’t feel fine at all. She tried to sit up again, and once more was overcome by dizziness. She tried to fight it, but when a wave of nausea threatened to crash over her as she swung her legs off the bed, she gave up once more, a moan escaping her as she fell back onto the bed, curled on her side, and waited for it to pass.

  Finally she felt well enough to roll over and look at the clock.

  Nearly four—she’d been asleep for hours!

  And the children—

  “Ryan? Laurie?” she called out, but her voice sounded weak, and she was certain it wouldn’t carry past the closed door of the bedroom.

  Once again she sat up, and once again the wave of dizziness struck, followed by the feeling of nausea. But this time she refused to give in to it, forcing herself to ride it out. As it finally subsided, she stood up and took a lurching step toward the door, but before she could take another, the vertigo crashed over her yet again and she nearly lost her balance, barely catching herself on the night table before she would have fallen to the floor. But again she didn’t give up, remaining on her feet, steadying herself with one hand on the night table and the other on the bed, waiting for the spell to pass. When at last she felt steady enough, she started slowly toward the door, willing herself to stay on her feet.

  She came to the door, gripped the crystal knob, and twisted it. Pulling the door open, she moved out into the hall. From the bottom of the stairs, she heard Tony’s voice drifting up.

  “If you could call back tomorrow,” she heard him saying. “I know my wife will want to talk to you, but she hasn’t been well today and right now she’s asleep.”

  “I’m not aslee—” she began, but before she could even finish the words—words uttered in a voice so weak she knew they wouldn’t carry down the stairs, another wave of nausea broke over her, and she clutched at the balustrade above the staircase, her words dying on her lips as all her strength went to keeping herself from sagging to the floor.

  “I’ll give her the message,” she heard Tony say.

  “Tony?” she called as she heard him putting the receiver back on the phone in the hall.

  In an instant he appeared at the bottom of the stairs, peering up at her. “Darling, what are you doing? You should be in bed!” He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, then was at her side.

  “Who was that?” she asked as he slipped a supportive arm around her and began guiding her back to the bedroom.

  Tony hesitated only second. “Someone from the police department. I believe her name was Hernandez. She wanted to talk to you about Andrea Costanza.”

  “You should have told me—” Caroline said as she let herself be eased back down onto the bed.

  “She’ll call again in the morning when you’re feeling better.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Tony said with mock severity. “How are you feeling? Any better at all?”

  Caroline’s mind raced and she searched his face for any sign that he knew what she’d done, but all she could see in his eyes was concern. Play along, she told herself.

  “I—I think so,” she stammered, though she felt far worse now than she had when Dr. Humphries had been here. Now a new idea popped into her mind. Had it really been medicine he’d given her, or had it been some kind of drug? But why would he do that? No—it had to be that she really was coming down with Laurie’s flu. “Where are the kids?” she asked, trying to make the question sound much more casual than she felt.

  “Ryan’s avoiding me by staying in his room as usual, and Laurie’s downstairs. Alicia Albion made an apple pie, and Laurie’s doing her best to limit herself to one piece.”

  “Would you ask her to come up?”

  Tony’s eyes clouded slightly. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? If she’s just getting over the same thing you have—”

  “She won’t get it again,” Caroline assured him. “Or if she’s going to, she will, just like you and Ryan will. Just tell her to come up and see me, okay?”

  “You’ve got it.” Leaning over, Tony kissed her lightly on the cheek, then left the room and a moment later she heard him going down the stairs. A few seconds later, Ryan appeared in her doorway.

  “Mom?”

  “Hey,” Caroline said, holding her arms open and trying to sound a lot better than she felt. “Come give your mom a hug.”

  Ryan dashed across the room, gave her a squeeze, but then pulled away. “Are you really sick?” he asked, his voice clearly conveying his suspicion that she was faking it.

  Caroline nodded. “I’m afraid so. I didn’t think so this morning but—”

  “I bet that doctor poisoned you,” Ryan blurted out, voicing the same terrible thought that had come into her mind only a few minutes ago. Now she tried to calm his fear just as she had tried to quell her own. “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard of. He’s a doctor.”

  “He’s weird,” Ryan pronounced. His eyes darted toward the door for an instant, and when he spoke again, his voice was little more than a whisper. “Did you see them?” Caroline hesitated just long enough to tell Ryan what he wanted to know. “See?” he said. “I wasn’t lying! That woman was in them, and Tony was in them! So he did know her before, didn’t he?”

  “Now just take it easy,” Caroline began. She tried to think, tried to find words that would alleviate his fears, but none would come because her own fears had finally grown even larger than his. She was still groping for the right phrases when Laurie appeared, her expression as worried as Tony’s had been a few minutes ago.

  “Mom? Are you feeling better?”

  Caroline hitched herself up in bed. “I’m not that sick,” she said. “And by tomorrow morning I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “But—” Ryan began, and Caroline found herself saying exactly the same thing to Ryan that Tony had said to her.

  “No buts,” she said. “By tomorrow morning I’ll be all well again.”

  And tomorrow morning, I’ll make up my mind what to do, she added silently to herself. Whatever’s going on, one more night won’t make any difference. . . .

  CHAPTER 30

  Frank Oberholzer ignored the burning in his stomach as he shoved another bite of enchilada into his mouth, chewed for a moment, then reached for the Tabasco sauce that he’d already dosed his meal with three times. “You’re going to die of an ulcer and leave me a widow,” his wife had told him more times than he could remember, but now he was alone in their apartment up on 118th Street, and she was buried in New Jersey. Maybe he should’ve made a bigger deal out of her cigarettes, but hey—it was her life. And now the enchiladas—the microwavable kind that weren’t too bad if y
ou put enough Tabasco sauce on them—were his main companions in the evenings. Those, and the files on whatever case he was working on. Sometimes he wondered why he even kept the apartment. There was a microwave in the squad room, and most nights he could sleep in the holding cell as easily as in his own bed. Sighing unconsciously, he shoved another forkful of enchilada into his mouth and began going over the report Maria Hernandez had typed up for him.

  For a rookie, she hadn’t done too bad—left out a few questions maybe, but for the most part she’d gotten the information he needed: how well the people in the address book knew Costanza; when the last time they’d seen her had been; if she’d been upset about anything; and—the thing Oberholzer really wanted to know—if there’d been a boyfriend, either past or current, who might be the jealous type.

  Only seven of the numbers in the book had been disconnected, every one of them out of state. With the local numbers, Costanza had apparently been very conscientious; there’d been either no answer or an answering machine on the numbers of the people Hernandez hadn’t been able to talk to, and not a single disconnect or change of number message. As for the people Hernandez had talked to, the answers were consistent, at least among those who claimed they knew her well enough to know.

  There had been no boyfriend, jealous or otherwise. Andrea Costanza, at least according to her friends, had dated a bit in college and in the years afterward, but as time had gone on, the dating had dwindled away. Reading between the lines, Oberholzer saw his impression of her apartment being confirmed: Andrea Costanza was well on her way to becoming a cat-lady. Cat-ladies, though, were harmless.