GRAVE WALKER: A gripping noir thriller (Thomas Blume series of Hard-Boiled Mysteries)

by PT Reade

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then have some wine with me,” Zoe moved over and pressed a hand against mine, raising her glass with the other. Her touch felt electric.

  I’d never been a fan of wine, but the prospect of anything to calm my nerves and scratch the drinking itch was enticing. Still…I knew Zoe’s reputation. She knew she was good-looking and had always used it to her advantage. She’d traveled the world, leaving a string of broken hearts in her wake.

  “I’ll pass for now,” I said, swallowing hard. “Look, at the risk of seeming insensitive, do you have any idea what happened to Darcey?”

  Zoe shook her head as she stared absently into one of the boxes she was packing up. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and when she did, I was struck by the curve of her jaw tapering down to her slender neck.

  Get a grip, Tom.

  “I already spoke to the police but…well, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be ruled a suicide,” Zoe said.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, bringing myself back to the moment.

  “Oh well, you know. I mean Darce’ and I never really saw eye to eye. She was a bit of a tree hugger, save the world kinda thing, and I never went in for all that stuff. But over the last few years we became even more distant, she was getting paranoid, weird. I don’t know. I just know she wasn’t happy.”

  “But you don’t know why she would take her own life?”

  “No,” she said sadly. She followed this by another gulp of wine, and God help me, my mouth seemed to dry up. I noticed the streaked smears of lipstick along the rim and was ashamed that my pulse quickened.

  Something else caught my eye though, I spotted another glass sitting on the coffee table behind her. It had the tiniest trace of claret in the bottom. Unlike the glass that Zoe seemed to have glued to her hand, this one did not have lipstick smears on the rim.

  Interesting.

  “So, you say you’re not exactly working,” Zoe said. “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She nodded, fixing me with a wide gaze. “You might be wasting your time with looking into this Darcey thing, I’m afraid. Suicide…it’s so sad.”

  “It is sad,” I replied absently as I scanned the room for any other clues. Nothing else seemed out of place.

  “So,” she said as she finished off her glass of wine, and then blinked rapidly, as if the wine was suddenly going to her head. “Will you be coming to the funeral?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I replied, though in truth I hadn’t even considered it.

  Zoe looked back towards the kitchen. She waved her empty glass at me and frowned. “I’m going to get a refill. You sure you don’t want some?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks.”

  I waited for her to leave the room, and when she was out of sight, I acted fast, crossing over to the coffee table. A plan in mind.

  “Nice tune,” I commented, as I worked quickly in secret. The beautiful melancholy track piping from Zoe’s phone was somehow familiar. “Sounds like Portishead.”

  Zoe came back into the room ten seconds later with her refill. “Alessia Cara,” she replied. “A cover, maybe? She has a beautiful voice, though.”

  “She does,” I noted, thankful my ruse had gone unnoticed. “Were you packing anything in particular?” I asked, nodding towards all of the boxes.

  “Not really,” she said. “I guess it was just helping me move on.”

  “Well, do me a favor,” I said. “If you think of anything that could be helpful, you can reach me through the Midtown precinct for the next few days. Just ask for the desk of Detective Sanchez.”

  “Leaving already?” she asked. “Sure you won’t join me for a glass? I don’t want to finish this all alone. Last chance.” And with a smoldering look that would have melted a lesser man, she offered me a mischievous smile.

  “Yeah…look, I’ve gotta go,” I replied quickly before I could change my mind.

  “Let me give you my number at least,” she said. “Maybe I can help when I’m not so…emotional.”

  You mean drunk, I thought, but who was I to judge? I was the poster boy for bad decisions based on alcohol.

  Zoe wrote down her number on a torn scrap of cardboard and handed it to me. Her hand brushed mine and as the soft music, lingering scent of wine and gentle touch of her skin filled my senses, I suddenly understood how she had managed to break so many hearts over the years.

  Any ordinary man would have fallen for her charms about two exits back.

  Lucky for me, or perhaps unlucky depending on how you looked at it, I was no ordinary man. My heart had been torn out 18 months ago and all that lay in its place now was an aching emptiness. A hollow place of loss and grief.

  And it would take more than a pretty girl and some cheap vino to fill that.

  So I pocketed the number without looking at it, said my goodbyes to a disappointed-looking Zoe and started for the door.

  ***

  I found myself pausing in the hallway outside. Standing for a moment, processing what had just happened. It seemed off. Every man wanted to believe a beautiful woman like Zoe flirts with him out of sheer attraction, but I knew better. Something else was going on here. Something she was doing her best to distract me from.

  Speaking with her had done little beyond stirring my libido and making me want to drink, but I had picked up one clue. When Zoe had gone to the kitchen to fetch more wine I had made my move on the mysterious second wine glass.

  In a swift move, I had torn a piece of packing tape free and run the tape along the curve of the empty wine glass. In the moment, I really had no idea why I was doing it. I was going off of a gut feeling. But now, in the hallway, carefully grasping the tape and the faint fingerprint shapes on it, I had a feeling that the evidence in my hand would give me the first solid lead.

  A lead Zoe Holland didn’t want me to find.

  TWELVE

  At the precinct, night had fallen, and most of the cops had gone home. A few hardy souls stayed on board; those with no families or those trying to escape them.

  I shuffled through the hallways with my prize in hand, thinking through the events of today and trying to piece it all together.

  I finally reached the “office” I had been kindly allocated by Kinsey. As I pushed the door open, I almost laughed. A few shafts of light filtered through the blinds from outside, dimly illuminating the space. It was little more than a large storage closet complete with stacks of boxes and old filing cabinets. A dumping ground for all the junk the other cops wanted off their desks during the move to the new building.

  Still, it had a desk, an old computer, and a window, so it would do. Sitting on the desk was a stack of files—case reports and interviews from the Darcey Holland case.

  I put my bag down and picked up the heavy stack, thumbing through the hundreds of pages.

  A little light reading before bed.

  Sighing, I dropped the files back on the desk and slumped into the chair I had been given, a battered old leather recliner that creaked as it swiveled, but it was surprisingly comfortable. It had probably been some former Lieutenant’s, sitting in his office for years before he retired or office guidelines made the chair obsolete.

  The steady march of progress, I realized.

  Maybe that was the way I would go, I mused. Made obsolete by newer, more efficient models. I had given my fingerprint evidence to the lab and now had nothing to do but wait as the computers worked their magic. The world of the detective was changing, and perhaps I was getting left behind. Pounding the streets and cracking heads was being replaced by cameras and cybercrime. A kid with a laptop could get more done in his pajamas than I could all day tailing a perp in my car. I was an analogue guy in a digital world.

  Was I destined to drown under the tide of change?

  But how could I change? How could I move on? It would be an insult to the memory of Sarah and Tommy. I could never rest until they were avenged. Never.

  I wheeled
the chair to the window and took a look through the blinds. As night settled over the city, an acid streetlight cast long shadows down the sidewalk. The view wasn’t exactly spectacular; half of the post office next door and some of the street outside, but it was better than nothing.

  A tinge of sadness touched me as I realized I hadn’t even booked anywhere to stay while I was in town. I’d been so caught up with the events of the day that it hadn’t even occurred to me. Rey would always let me crash, I knew, but it was getting late, and I felt bad calling him.

  There was one other place of course. A place full of memories—but I wasn’t ready to go back there. Not yet.

  As those thoughts crept up on me, I pushed them down the only way I knew how. I reached for the brown paper bag on the desk and withdrew the small bottle of Bourbon I had picked up after my visit to Darcey’s apartment. It was against police regulations, but that had never stopped me before. Guilt and I were old friends.

  Besides, it was only a small bottle.

  I opened the cap and found a stack of Styrofoam cups in the corner. Probably left over from some coffee machine somewhere. Pulling one from the top, I poured the whiskey halfway and sipped.

  God, it tasted good.

  As the smoky warmth filled my senses, I dropped back into the chair and pulled the case files over. If I was going to make any progress in this case, I couldn’t waste time. I flicked on a lamp and began reading the top file.

  Teach was going to be released soon, and I couldn’t let him escape. Not again. Of all the enemies facing me, time was the one that I knew I couldn’t beat.

  With the shadows growing, I began my reading.

  THIRTEEN

  What?!

  I snapped awake as a shrill noise pierced my senses. Sunlight streamed through the window, hurting my eyes.

  Shit. How long had I been out?

  My head pounded, and I tried to fill in the gaps as I straightened my body. I must have fallen asleep at the desk. I had no idea what time it was, but my back ached.

  The half-empty bottle of bourbon sat across the desk from me, mocking me.

  The noise sounded again, and I recognized my cell phone ringing, just out of arm’s reach.

  I staggered to my feet, and the world spun a little too much. I reached the phone, desperate to silence its cry.

  “Yeah, I croaked,” hitting the answer button.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Rey chimed at the other end.

  “What’s up, Rey?” I managed.

  “Jesus man, you sound like shit.”

  “You should see how I look,” I replied. “What do you need?”

  “I don’t need anything. You asked me to come with you to follow a lead, Whitehouse, remember? 7am? I’m outside in the car like we agreed.”

  “Oh, yeah right. Um, give me a couple of minutes.” I only vaguely remembered the plan with Rey, but either way, I had no time to waste. I hung up, pulled on my jacket and made for the bathroom.

  I’d be with Rey in a few minutes, but first I had to throw up.

  ***

  I left the police precinct, grabbed the strongest coffee I could find, a barely passable breakfast wrap, and joined Rey in the car. The day was already building to be another scorcher but the humidity whispered of far-off rain. The heat did nothing to ease my headache though. This was a hangover sent directly from Mother Nature.

  As we drove through the bright morning streets, I sipped on the steaming brew and said very little. Rey gave me a few disparaging looks but said nothing either, for which I was grateful.

  Finally we reached the location we needed; the last known address of Eugene Whitehouse—the man whose fingerprints I’d lifted from the mysterious wine glass. The labs had kindly provided the results late last night, and I’d emailed Rey almost immediately; full of alcohol-fueled enthusiasm.

  Today however, I was regretting it.

  Corellia House was a pleasant apartment complex and one of the most modern-looking buildings on the street, all glass and steel. Still, it seemed to blend in well with its surroundings, and if I hadn’t known the address, it would have been easy to overlook. It was the sort of place that had a doorman who smiled politely at those who entered and exited. A place with delusions of grandeur. Expensive but bland.

  “So what did Kinsey say about Whitehouse?” I asked Rey. “Did she clear it?”

  Rey shook his head. “No, I didn’t tell her.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I didn’t have time to tell you before, but you should tread carefully with this guy.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  Rey chuckled. “Something like that. This asshole’s been investigated so many times he should have an NYPD loyalty card. He’s dirty from the top down but slippery. We’ve never managed to pin much on him, and he’s threatened the precinct with legal action for harassment. But between you and me, the boys in Organized Crimes are putting together a big case against him. They don’t want us screwing it up.”

  “Huh, I don’t remember hearing anything about it before.”

  Rey pulled a rubber-cased Samsung computer tablet from the center console and swiped through a few files. Finally the slim, balding face of one Eugene Whitehouse showed up, including a series of notes underneath. He passed it over, and I scanned the police record while Rey continued.

  “Yeah, but we worked Homicide, man. Ask the boys in O. C. about this guy, and see what they say. Dig into any case concerning the mob, and you’ll find that this guy floats to the top. Whitehouse’s name has popped up a little more than usual in the last year or so, though. For seven or eight years we never really heard much about him. Just a failed doctor who lost his practice due to medical malpractice.”

  “And yet he’s living in a place like this?” I asked, nodding to the building. “He must still be doing pretty well for himself.”

  “Yeah well, let’s just say he’s back in business.”

  “So why in the hell would Zoe Holland have had any reason to see a mob doctor?” I wondered out loud.

  “Well, I guess that’s why we’re here, right?” Rey said.

  “Right.”

  As if on cue, we both exited the car and started over the street toward Corellia House. Again I was struck by the building sun, beating down through the canopy of trees along the sidewalk. The day would be another scorcher. I was grateful I had decided to leave my jacket behind in favor of a simple navy blue t shirt and jeans.

  “What help is he offering to these mafia douchebags anyway?” I asked.

  “We’re not sure. Surgeries that other doctors won’t perform? Patching up gunshot wounds? Emergency abortions for mistresses? Things like that...things people might not want to go on any official record. Really, there’s a lot of guys at the station who think that eventually the insurance scams are going to backfire on him, and we’ll be able to just walk in the door and arrest him.”

  “Maybe we could speed that process up?” I suggested, with a sideways glance.

  “Maybe,” Rey said flatly.

  The doorman held the door open for us and smiled without emotion. I nodded as we entered and rolled my eyes at the layout of the place. It was over the top, from the high lobby ceilings to the pretentious neoclassical columns and potted plants sitting in every available space. Rey and I headed for the elevators. None of the few people milling about in the lobby seemed to even notice us.

  “So, nothing else at Darcey’s place yesterday?” he asked me as we took the elevator up.

  “No. I ran into her sister, who was getting better acquainted with a bottle of wine. She was just boxing some things up. I did notice a second glass of wine that didn’t have an owner, though. It seemed a little weird. I don’t know…call it a gut thing. So that’s where I got the prints that led us here.”

  “Prints?” Rey asked with a laugh. “Do you carry a crime scene kit with you along with the hip flask?”

  “No. I snagged a piece of packaging tape and lifted the impressions from the glass.”


  Rey nodded with an impressed look on his face. “Damn,” he said. “Smart thinking. You’re just full of surprises these days, Blume.”

  The elevator came to a stop, and the doors slid open with a ding. As we stepped out onto the fourth floor, I realized that we would have to tread carefully here. Kinsey would be pissed if she found out we spoke to Whitehouse, and that was even if the guy gave us any useful information.

  Rey and I headed left towards Apartment 419. As we did, I spotted a man further down the hall. He had a bag of groceries on his arm and was currently fighting to get his keys out of his coat pocket. Thin frame, gray suit, balding head.

  I did a quick count of the doors along the wall separating us from this man and realized that he was standing in front of the door to apartment 419. I nudged Rey and nodded in the man’s direction.

  “Whitehouse.”

  At about the same time, he seemed to notice us coming in his direction. He had his keys in his free hand now, with his bag of groceries in the crook of his other arm. He stared at us for a moment, totally frozen, eyes wide.

  “Dr. Whitehouse?” Rey asked.

  The man said nothing. He only continued to stare at us, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. There was a tense moment between the three of us that seemed to stretch on for minutes, but in reality it was less than a few seconds. Suddenly, in a movement so fast that it caught both Rey and I off guard, the man dropped his groceries and bolted, running in the other direction.

  “I guess that’s Whitehouse,” I said as we started forward after him.

  The doctor was heading for the stairs at the other end of the hallway. I did a quick calculation and realized our best chance was to split up.

  “Rey, stop. Go back down to the lobby. Head him off if he tries to escape. I’m going after him.”

  Rey nodded and headed back to the elevator, and back down.

  I sprinted after Whitehouse as he disappeared through the door into the end stairwell. A few seconds later, I burst through the door in hot pursuit. He could have gone up or down, but if he descended, Rey would pick him up in the lobby.