Morris threw up his hands. “Sure. Tomorrow morning. Great. It’s night and I’m still working—again. I’m taking someone else into the station. Great, great, great. You know what, Special Agent Pryce? I’m damned glad that—while we’re working in tandem and cooperation and all that bull—this is really your case! Good night!” he said. “And, God help me, make this your last call to me for today, huh?”
Vickie realized that Griffin was trying to hide a grin as Morris walked away from him. But then, as the officer left them, he shook his head and looked down the stairs.
“I’m getting the lights on—I’m going back down there. She might have been lying or she might have been telling the truth. I just don’t know with Lacey. But...”
“There just might be someone else down there,” Vickie said.
“Exactly,” Griffin said.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No. Start on the computer,” he told her, pulling out his phone.
Vickie knew that he was calling Jackson.
He looked at her as he made the call, and as he spoke.
“Hey, are Gary Frampton and Jon Skye still at the hospital?” he asked. “I see. Huh,” he murmured.
“What?” Vickie demanded.
Griffin shook his head, telling her what Jackson had told him. “Alice came to. She spoke to her father. She doesn’t know what happened to her, but she does remember that she got out of bed. She swears that nothing happened to her in her room, that Jon Skye would never hurt her.
“But Gary left the hospital?” Griffin asked Jackson. He put his phone on speaker so that Vickie could hear the answer.
“Yes, he was going to get some things and come back,” Jackson said. “I asked an officer to follow him, but he lost him right away. He’s not at his home in the city. As to Jon Skye, yes, I did see him—but he left almost right away, too. He saw Alice. They had a teary reunion. But then Jon left. He wanted to speak with Gary Frampton and clear the air. Why? What’s going on?”
Griffin explained to Jackson.
“Lacey swears she didn’t turn off the lights,” he said. “She suggests that someone else was down there.”
“It is possible,” Jackson said. “And as for Lacey...”
“Yeah?” Griffin asked.
“Just don’t be fooled. We have seen women kill. You should try questioning her yourself, Griffin. You may discover something that Morris doesn’t.”
“Well, one way or the other, she’ll spend the night in jail. They won’t be able to arraign her until tomorrow morning. I’ll search this place again. And then I’ll try my luck with Lacey.”
Jackson went on to tell them that Liza Harcourt was stable, but that she hadn’t come around yet.
“And, yes, by the way—lots of the street drug baby-baby was found in both women,” Jackson told them.
Griffin thanked him; Jackson said that he and Angela would be standing guard at the hospital for a few more hours, and then see if Morris could replace them with some of his officers.
He didn’t want to lose any more people.
Griffin hung up.
Vickie looked at him and waited.
“I’m going back down to the cellar,” he told her.
She nodded, and went to find a table where she could set up and get going with Verne’s laptop.
* * *
It was rather amazing, Griffin thought, that in all that had happened down in the cellar, not a drop of wine had been spilled.
He now had lights glaring everywhere. He walked to the desk, paused. He retraced his steps over and over and over again.
Nothing. He went through the false wall to the back. He frowned, noting that the delivery door was still standing ajar.
Simple. Lacey hadn’t closed it.
But...
Was Lacey the killer? Was she capable of it? Could she have gotten a man the size of Brent Whaley into the floor?
Apparently baby-baby was strong enough to make a monster pliable. But still...
How did a man lie right down to die? How did he crawl into such a horrible situation?
Griffin retraced his steps again.
This time, he found something.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Caught on the wire cork-cage of one of the champagne bottles was a bit of fluff.
Griffin reached into his jacket pocket for tweezers and a little evidence bag. He snagged the fluff with the tweezers and studied it.
Black wool, he thought.
Lacey had been wearing a pale blue pullover and jeans.
But then again, maybe this had been here; maybe it had been overlooked.
He didn’t think so; the forensic science teams were very good. After Franklin Verne’s death, they had inspected every inch of the wine cellar.
They had missed the false wall, he reminded himself.
But that was architectural.
Griffin bagged the fluff and turned back into the cellar.
If there was one false wall...
There just might be another.
16
Vickie found it was incredibly easy to hack Franklin Verne’s laptop.
He used his wife’s name for every password. On one account, he used her name with the number one. He apparently hated passwords.
Vickie was surprised and touched to discover just how active the man had been on his social media. He was funny, nonpolitical and to the point. He advised readers on great new books coming out that he’d had the opportunity to read.
Facebook didn’t give her much.
His email account was different.
She discovered that he’d kept a running conversation going with Brent Whaley.
One note read, “Brent, I understand your feeling of frustration. This is one of the reasons that while I am a member of many societies and groups, I keep my distance. I know this individual myself. Nothing overt, ever, nothing in front of others. But this writer will corner you and demand to know how you stole from their work. Stole! My dear friend, we both know that we do not need to steal from any other writer, nor, for that matter, does the greenest beginner who loves the craft. I keep my temper because of the very interesting bits and pieces of history our friend is able to glean and give out upon occasion. Hold your temper, but know, if need be, I will be there to defend you.”
Vickie sat back. She let out a long breath. She hadn’t been far off the truth at all—someone out there had accused a man like Franklin Verne of stealing.
Verne had found such a possibility laughable—almost to the point of being nothing at all.
But obviously, whoever it was had come after both men.
Then again, there was another puzzling dilemma. If the person had just been after Brent Whaley and Franklin Verne for stealing, why also attack Alice Frampton and Liza Harcourt?
She was pondering the question and all but losing her mind when she felt a whiff of cold air and felt someone heading her way.
Poe.
She smiled at him gently. “I don’t know who yet, but I believe I have found proof that someone believed that Brent Whaley and Franklin Verne were stealing prose. Plagiarizing,” she said.
He frowned. “And you think that... Yes! You think that Reynolds thought that I was stealing from him? But I barely knew the man. And I never stole a line in my life!”
“I don’t believe that Verne or Whaley ever plagiarized as much as a line, either,” Vickie said. “But what’s real doesn’t always matter. What people think has been done to them can be just as serious as what really happened.”
Poe nodded thoughtfully. He looked up at his picture on the wall.
“No matter what you discover, you’ll be able to put forth another theory. But at this stage, more th
an a hundred and fifty years later, there will be no proof,” he said.
“It’s likely that there won’t be proof,” Vickie said. “Still, I’m going to do all the research that I can. I’ll do everything in my power to find out what happened.”
“When will you start?”
“I’m going to go through more of these emails and see if Franklin Verne left us anymore clues. And after that...”
“After that you’ll start on Reynolds?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes. I promise. I...”
She paused, afraid to really put her finger on just what might be happening.
Happening now...with two deaths already.
Perhaps more that needed to be prevented.
“Vickie?” Poe said softly.
“I think Reynolds killed you in jealousy over a belief that you stole from him. And I believe that whoever murdered these men did it for the same reason—and actually knew what was done to you and who did it. How and why... Well, I have to figure that out!”
* * *
There was something Griffin knew he was missing; the thing was that everything had happened so quickly, and the situation had been so tense minute after minute that they were all exhausted. It was time to head back to the beautiful historic hotel they’d first checked in to—now with a new reservation—and get some sleep.
He found Vickie upstairs, sitting at one of the restaurant’s booths; she was excited and wired.
She’d been far more successful than he had. He’d gone over the walls in the cellar of the restaurant for hours, tapping, listening and pushing—and he’d found nothing else.
Vickie told him about the emails she had discovered—one from Brent Whaley and another from Franklin Verne to Brent Whaley. They were all about the “person” or “writer” who seemed to believe that they had been wronged.
“We’re back to ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’ Griffin. The victim is made drunk and walled up—for having insulted the narrator. The narrator gets away with it.”
“Poe wasn’t walled up,” Griffin pointed out.
“No, but he was kidnapped—and I’m certain that his attacker set him up to be bitten by a rabid animal. A dog, if my dream is right. The man who was after Poe claimed his name was Reynolds. He lured Poe with a promise of work and a lot of money. And once he had him...well, it wouldn’t work to wall him up.”
“Why take a chance of leaving him alive?” Griffin asked her.
“Rabies, Griffin! Poe was not going to recover from rabies!”
That made sense; he believed Vickie. But he needed some sleep. “We’re going to the hotel for now, okay? Bring the computer. You can keep digging. I have to sleep. I’ll be useless if I don’t.”
He could tell that she was happy to go to the hotel, even if she didn’t have the least intention of sleeping herself. She was fixated on the laptop.
They stopped for a quick meal of sushi. From the restaurant they chose, they could see Fort McHenry.
“Baltimore is really an amazing city,” Vickie murmured. “I’ve done it before, of course. When we’re settled...”
“We’ll come back and visit the fort,” he promised.
She laughed. “It always makes me think of the flag! And Francis Scott Key and ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’”
He agreed, and found himself thinking that he loved the fact that she found such tremendous pleasure in every place they went, in every historic event that was relevant.
And, of course, she made good use of that love of history.
“We will have to turn that computer in as evidence. It should have been cataloged. But I think that Morris meant what he said—he was glad that the majority of the case was falling on us.”
“He’ll have this computer tomorrow,” she promised. “I think I’ve actually gotten what I need from it. Neither man actually names the writer who is being so vicious toward them both, certain that they were stealing his work. Neither even makes a mistake and alludes to it being a man or a woman. But it’s there, and I believe we will figure out who it was.”
“Gary Frampton just owns the restaurant. Sure, he loves Poe and literature. The man had to, in order to open a place like the Black Bird. But he doesn’t write. And he was damned distraught about Alice.”
“So was Jon Skye.”
“Alistair Malcolm is in custody, and now, for the night, at least, Lacey Shaw is in custody as well. All should be quiet. Adam is with Monica, so she’s well, but...”
“Only Gary Frampton and Jon Skye are really out and about,” Vickie said.
“They’ll wind up back at the hospital,” Griffin said with confidence.
“You’re so sure.”
“Yes. As long as Alice is in there, they’ll return. As for us...are you all set? I’ve got to go to sleep.”
When they reached their room, it was her own computer that Vickie pulled out. “I’ll be quiet, and I won’t be long,” she promised.
She started working. On what, he wasn’t sure.
Griffin stripped down and stretched out on the bed. Vickie turned off all the lights, using just the glow of her screen. She seemed to be going from site to site, frowning here and there, hurriedly keying in another search.
He watched her for a while. Then he crawled out of bed and stood behind her. She eventually looked up.
“I’ve heard that a shake-up in activities sharpens the mind,” he told her.
She smiled. “I’m so close.”
“Yes, you are,” he whispered. He spun the swivel chair she was sitting in around. Reaching for her, he pulled her up into his arms.
“I don’t really mean to interrupt,” he said. “I just needed to save you. You were looking incredibly frustrated.”
“Frustration is a terrible thing,” she said.
“I know. I was suffering from it.”
She laughed; she was in his arms.
Life was magic.
* * *
Vickie was there, and yet she wasn’t herself anymore. Poe was with her.
They weren’t separate; neither one of them watched the other. They were as one person.
Hands tied behind the back...
Burlap bag over the head, blinding. And yet they could hear. Two speakers. Both men, or so it seemed. The one voice was coarse and scratchy. Male or female? It was the voice that spoke first.
“I started with the opium. He’s had enough. I shut him in the yard.”
“Have you loosed the dog yet?”
“Any minute. Did you do what I asked?”
“He’s voted three times. Now you must do as I ask. Then a few days...and we’ve both got what we want, and the infamous Poe will go down in history as the wretch he is!”
“No...”
Vickie heard the word as a moan. A protest. And she saw glimpses of a life—good memories flashing by. She saw Elmira playing the piano in her parlor, flushing as she turned to smile.
Gone!
“He’s awake!” said someone. “Get the bag off. Let him see what’s coming!”
Vickie was seeing what Poe had seen. And he hadn’t seen who pulled the burlap bag from his head and face.
He just saw the terrible and tormented creature before him, howling, wailing and gnashing its teeth, specks of drool tossing here and then, and...
Eyes of hell and pure fire, coming at him...
Vickie woke with a scream. Griffin was at her side, holding her, pulling her close.
“I will find it! I will find out who did this. It’s all related somehow. That’s why this is happening, why Poe is with us!”
As always, he soothed her, smoothing back her hair, rocking with her. Just holding her. He never tried to tell her that it was just a nightmare; Griffin knew that it was not. He never discour
aged the dreams, even knowing that they sometimes ripped her apart. They were something that she lived with; he just had a knack for bringing her out of them, studying them and using them.
She turned in his arms, telling him earnestly, “I’m all right. I’m really all right. I’m going to embrace all this—and find out what it means! Two people—I take it Reynolds and one other—kidnapped Poe. They drugged him with opium. And then they set a dog on him... I don’t know how he wasn’t torn to shreds, but I guess he was in such bad condition when he was found that it was difficult to define any mark on him. After he was attacked... Well, I don’t know where it went from there, but it could so easily be made to look as if he had either gone on a binge—or as if he had been attacked by a rabid dog. Both were true—and neither were true.” She gasped suddenly. “The baby-baby, Griffin. Even that is part of it. Poe was given opium and alcohol. Franklin was drugged and given alcohol. Who knows about Brent—he wasn’t an addict, so it wouldn’t have mattered to the killer. Franklin, though, had to smell like alcohol! It had to appear that he betrayed the promise he made to Monica about temperance!”
Griffin was thoughtful. He leaned back, pulling her with him. “That’s what you’ve been looking for, isn’t it? Records about someone writing like Poe. Someone publishing similar stories—once he was dead.”
“Yes.”
“I doubt if Reynolds was really his name.”
“Probably not,” Vickie said. “I think I’m going to have to dig up every mention of Poe in any paper that came out right after his death—and in the years that followed. There’s going to be something there, and it will help us, I’m certain of it.”
The phone rang suddenly, a strident sound. Griffin rolled over to answer it. He listened for a minute. Vickie heard him say, “Yes,” and then “Yes,” again.
He hung up and looked at her. “Okay, I’m going to go to the police station. Carl Morris has kept Lacey Shaw in a tank overnight. He did have legal grounds to hold her and I think he does intend to charge her with obstruction of justice. But even though she was down there, we can’t charge her with murder—a good attorney would have a judge laugh a prosecutor right out of court. We just don’t have the evidence.”
Wicked Deeds Page 26