Linger: Dying is a Wild Night (A Linger Thriller Book 1)

by Edward Fallon

  “And what was it? His story.”

  “Abandoned at birth. Spent the first seven years of his life living in a group home for children with special needs. Then one night someone wiped them all out. Kids, caretakers, nine people in all. Christopher was found curled up in a corner, barely alive, but by the grace of God—or so the host said—he had managed to survive.”

  “Jesus,” Kate murmured.

  “The people telling the story were Chris’s foster parents. Couple of unemployable reprobates who take in kids like stray pets because the government pays them by the head. I could see that they were only in it for the money—especially with Christopher, who seemed to spook them both whenever they looked at him, like he was more a curse than a miracle. But, hey, they were on TV.”

  “So you felt sorry for him.”

  Weston forced a hollow laugh. “I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. No, what happened was I got about half a bottle into my nightly quota and started hearing a voice inside my head. I thought I was hallucinating, and knew it had to be the booze, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the TV. And every time they cut to a shot of Chris sitting there next to those worthless wretches, I felt like he was looking straight at me. Calling to me. Only I couldn’t quite understand the words.”

  Kate thought about the scrambled transmission. The backwards speech. Was that what Weston had heard, too?

  “So what did you do?” she asked.

  “What I always did. Passed out. But when I woke up the next morning, I found an empty can of black spray paint at the foot of the sofa. No idea how it got there. But that didn’t much matter when I saw what I’d done with it.”

  “Let me guess. A picture?”

  He nodded. “The entire wall above the sofa was covered with a painting. Black and white. Detailed beyond belief. And if I’d still been a religious man, I would’ve said it was a sign from God, because even stone-cold sober I never would’ve been able to paint something like that.”

  “What was it?” she asked.

  “A beat-up plantation style house with a mailbox out front. The name below it read HANEY, the name of the foster parents. Angela and Rupert Haney.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Got drunk again. And the next day, I got some paint thinner out of the garage and went to work with a rag and a sponge until all that was left of the picture was a vague black smudge.”

  “But it obviously didn’t end there.”

  “No,” he said. “Two days later, I woke up and there was another empty spray paint can on the floor and the painting was back. Only this time it was dark green and even more detailed than before.” He paused. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. In this new painting, the front door of the house was hanging open and sitting in the foyer, looking out at the street with those blank eyes, was Christopher. Staring straight at me. And I knew that if God wasn’t sending me a message, that goddamn kid had to be.”

  Kate felt a chill, but said nothing.

  “So I packed my backpack, locked up my house, then climbed in the Rambler and headed for Tallahassee.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. I didn’t feel I had a choice.”

  He reached for the glass of water next to his untouched sandwich and took a sip. He seemed far away, as if he were replaying the moment in his mind.

  “And what happened when you got there?” Kate asked.

  “I didn’t have any trouble finding the place. It was like I had a GPS in my head and just followed my instincts. Next thing I knew I was parked out front, looking at that same house, in living color this time, mailbox and all. The only difference was that the front door was closed.”

  “And Christopher?”

  “I got out and opened the gate and went up the steps and was about to knock when a neighbor spotted me and told me I was wasting my time. That the Haneys had piled all their little circus freaks into their car—his words, not mine—and moved across town the previous day.”

  “So did you go look for them?”

  Weston shook his head. “I was heading back to the Rambler when something made me turn and look at the house again. And for some reason I felt as if I couldn’t leave. So I went up the steps and checked the front door and found it unlocked. When I pushed it open, I saw Christopher in the foyer, sitting in the middle of the floor on that little suitcase of his. Waiting for me. Just like in the painting.”

  “They’d left him behind.”

  Weston nodded. “And they’re probably still collecting a check in his name. I just stood there, staring at him, then gathered him up, helped him into the Rambler and we’ve been traveling together ever since. That was a little less than a year ago.”

  “Did he communicate with you? Say anything?”

  “In his usual way, yes. And this time it was crystal clear.”

  “What did he say?”

  Weston glanced at Christopher then looked again at Kate. “Six words. Six words that will probably stay with me for the rest of my life.”

  “Which were?”

  “’I know who killed your family.’”

  28

  _____

  KATE’S CELL PHONE RANG, BUT she ignored it.

  On the third ring, Weston said, “Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

  She pulled the phone from her back pocket, checked the screen, then jabbed the decline button and set the phone on the table. “It can wait. Keep going.”

  Weston spread his hands. “There isn’t much else to say. It took me awhile to get my mind around what Christopher wanted me to help him do, but once I did, I was—”

  “Back up a minute. You just said he knew who killed your family.”

  “Right. But he couldn’t give me a name. And as you saw in the drawings, there are only glimpses of what the guy looks like—based on what he’s gathered from the crimes scenes we’ve visited. Chris calls him the Beast.”

  “Like in Lord of the Flies?”

  “Or maybe the Book of Revelation—although despite that train wreck of a TV show, I’ve never gotten the impression he’s religious.”

  “But it’s curious the name he’s chosen starts with a B. Has he ever mentioned someone called Michael Bonner?”

  “No,” Weston said. “Who’s that?”

  She stared at him, wondering how, in less than an hour, she’d gone from complete distrust to wanting to share everything with him. But who else could she talk to about this? Certainly not her father. Or her colleagues.

  So she explained what she’d seen in her vision, describing the nameplate on Bonner’s chest and his attempt to cut out her mother’s tongue. She even told him of her near meltdown and her conversation with Rusty Patterson.

  “Right before I came to get you,” she said, “I went down to the Open Unsolved file room and dug up my mother’s murder book. I hadn’t looked at it in years.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “I checked the witness sheets and found that Michael “Mickey” Bonner had been working security for less than three weeks when he supposedly found her in the alley. His statements during both interviews were consistent and hadn’t raised any red flags. He claimed he was on his usual rounds when he spotted the body between the Dumpsters, and after checking to see if the victim was still alive, he told his partner to call the police.”

  “And what did the partner say?”

  “He backed up Bonner’s story, and probably believed it.”

  “Maybe I need to talk to this guy,” Weston said. “If he’s had direct contact with the Beast…”

  “Good luck with that. A newspaper clipping in the binder said he died in a car accident two months later.”

  Weston looked disappointed. “And what about Bonner? What happened to him?”

  “After his second interview, the investigators didn’t have any contact with him, and there’s nothing in the file to indicate where he might be. So I ran a database search and hit a dead end. None of the Mickey Bonners I found have ever
lived or worked in Santa Flora, let alone the Sandy Point Mall.”

  “And no photographs?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s like he never existed.”

  “Then I guess that means it’s time for us to go.”

  Kate frowned. “Really? After what I just told you?”

  “The trail you’re on is twenty years cold, lieutenant, and the only person who may have been any use to us is long dead. So what’s the point of sticking around? There’s nothing for us here.”

  “Yet here you are.”

  “Not for long.” Weston took another sip of his water and got to his feet. “You said we could leave if I let you buy us lunch. Well, lunch is over and we need to hit the road.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Weston.”

  “I told you that coming here wasn’t my idea. This is a detour. You’re a detour. A distraction we didn’t need.”

  “A distraction you don’t need. But what about Christopher? He didn’t show me that alley for no reason. He wants something from me. And I want to know what it is.”

  “You know what he wants. The same thing he wanted from me.”

  “To help you find and execute a man? That’s not what I do.”

  “Exactly. So why not just let us go? We’ve been doing fine without you. And even if you are some kind of industrial powered receiver, I’ve got no problem with—”

  Her phone rang again, cutting him off. Kate glanced at the screen and saw that it was Curt Clark, the same caller as before. She knew this had to be about Chucho Soriano, and couldn’t put it off again.

  As she reached for the phone, she looked up at Weston and nodded toward the diners at a nearby table. All wearing uniforms. “You try to go anywhere, I’ll have one of these unis slap cuffs on you.”

  Weston stared at her, then sat back down as she put the phone to her ear and answered it.

  “Messenger.”

  “Hey, Kate, it’s Curt. Which do you want first, the good news or the bad?”

  “I want you to tell me you found Soriano.”

  “Oh, we found him all right. His brother moved into a condo on the west side and it took us forever to locate it, but we’re here now, and so are Emilio and Chucho.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “So what’s the problem?”

  “That’s the bad news part. They’re both dead.”

  29

  _____

  EMILIO SORIANO’S CONDO WAS ONE of a cluster of five Cape Cod style townhouses surrounding a small, gated courtyard. The place didn’t scream millions, but it was considerably more upscale than any of the buildings you’d find near the Greyhound station—Emilio’s former stomping grounds.

  Somebody had moved up in the world.

  One of the dozen or so flies that had gathered at the scene waved Kate into the parking lot and pointed her toward a spot near the medical examiner’s van. She had wasted some time trying to figure out what to do with Weston and Christopher, and had finally decided to bring them along. She’d thought about throwing Weston back in a cell, but hadn’t felt right about leaving the boy at the station house or sending him to CPS.

  The back seat of her SUV probably wasn’t much better, but it would have to do for now, assuming she could trust Weston not to get itchy feet.

  After she pulled to a stop and killed the engine, she turned and looked at them—Weston quietly stewing while Christopher continued to block out the world. He held his photo album in his lap, and she wondered with a shiver if he had any more pictures for her to see.

  “You think you can stay put?” she asked Weston. “Or do I have to cuff you?”

  Weston wasn’t close to being a happy camper, but seemed resigned to his fate. “I don’t usually make the same mistake twice.”

  “I thought you might see it that way. We’ll be resuming our conversation once I’m done here.”

  “This is turning into a pretty long lunch.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my word. But it’ll take awhile. We still have a lot to talk about.” She gestured. “And maybe Chris will have rejoined us by the time I’m back.”

  “So we’re just supposed to sit here?”

  “Beats the alternative, doesn’t it?”

  Kate normally left her keys in the vehicle at a crime scene, but decided to take them with her, just in case. After a glance at the boy (back and forth, back and forth), she got out and approached the officer who had waved her into the parking lot.

  “You see those two in the back seat of my car?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They don’t go anywhere.”

  “You got it, lieutenant.”

  ∙ ∙ ∙

  When she stepped through the gate into the courtyard, several members of the forensics team were moving in and out of the townhouse, doing what they did so well. Curt Clark was waiting for her on the front porch with a pair of paper booties and plastic gloves. He was a serious young man who always handled his job with a grim efficiency—which was why she’d wanted him on her team.

  Kate took the booties, bent forward and started pulling them over her shoes. “Details?”

  “IDs confirm it’s Chucho and Emilio. Gunshot wounds to the head and chest. Nine mil. Looks like Emilio got it when he was answering the door. Chucho was in the bedroom closet.”

  She looked up at him. “Hiding?”

  He nodded. “That’s what we’re thinking. While Emilio went to the door. The M.E. says the wounds are fresh, so it didn’t happen too long before we got here.” He paused. “There’s something I didn’t mention on the phone.”

  She finished with the booties and stood upright. “Which is?”

  “We heard about what happened during the eleven o’clock, and you’ve got my support, no question, but I don’t think you’ll be happy to hear this considering how you and—”

  “Get to the point, Curt. I’ve got an investigation to run.”

  “Right,” he said. “Maybe it’s better if you see for yourself.”

  He stepped aside and gestured. She looked past him through the doorway and saw Bob MacLean standing near a row of barstools, talking to one of the forensics techs.

  Her chest tightened. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “Believe it or not, he’s the one who found the bodies.”

  “What?”

  “That was my reaction. He was coming out of the apartment just as we pulled into the parking lot. He flagged us down and told us to start prepping a crime scene. Said he came here to talk to Chucho and found them both dead.”

  “How the hell does he know Chucho?”

  “He didn’t explain. Just told me and Donahue to lay some tape and canvass the neighbors, see what they saw and heard.”

  “And what did they see and hear?”

  “Not a damn thing. Two of the units are vacant and the rest of the residents are at work. Nobody home.”

  Kate thought about what Dan had said this morning, that she was a reactor. And the reaction she was having right now was far from good. She struggled to contain the rage that was building inside her as she pushed past Clark without another word.

  Heads swiveled in her direction as she snapped on the gloves and stepped through the doorway. Emilio Soriano lay face up on the gray carpet, a tiny round bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, blood pooling beneath him. Kate knew by the expressions on the techs’ faces that they were expecting her to explode. Word had already gotten around about the incident in the break room.

  She forced herself to remain calm and made eye contact with MacLean. “Everyone out. Now. Except you, Bob.”

  The room cleared quickly as she stepped around Emilio’s body and approached MacLean.

  He held his hands up. “Now, look, Kate, before you go off half-cocked, just let me explain.”

  “How do you know Chucho Soriano?”

  “I was gonna tell you this morning after you sprang that phone on me, but you got under my skin and I overreacted and—”

  “You had ampl
e opportunity to tell me. How you do know Chucho Soriano?”

  MacLean took a breath. “He’s my CI. Or at least he used to be.”

  “Since when have you been running a CI, and why don’t I know about it?”

  “There’s nothing to know. If you’d done your due diligence and checked his records you would’ve seen I was the arresting officer on his first bust, back when I was a uni. We developed an understanding and I started using him for intel on the Varrio Disciples during the Descanso Avenue turf war.”

  “That was years ago.”

  MacLean nodded. “Exactly. But he’d been useful, so I kept up the relationship, strictly off the books—although our contact the last couple years has been minimal.”

  “Not according to his rap sheet. He was busted for coke less than six months ago and walked away without a scratch.”

  “That wasn’t me,” MacLean said. “Maybe someone else is running him.”

  “Yet you knew how to find him and didn’t say anything. Why is that, Bob?”

  “Look, I know I screwed up with that phone in Bree’s bedroom, and I gotta tell you, I was pretty surprised when you said you found Chucho’s name and number on it. So after our blow-up, I tried calling him, figuring if I was the one to pull him in, it might work in my favor, keep me at East Division. But he didn’t answer, so I went looking for him.” He gestured to Emilio’s body. “Looks like somebody else found him first.”

  “Did they?”

  MacLean frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Kate held out a hand. “Give me your weapon, Bob.”

  “You think I did this?”

  “I try not to jump to conclusions. But if you don’t want me to work my way toward what I’m hoping is the wrong one, you’ll give me your weapon.”

  “You just crossed the line, lady. Hell, you’re way over it now.”

  “Ask me if I care.”

  MacLean eyed her, then reached to his hip and pulled his Glock free, handing it to her, grip first. Kate lifted it to her nose, didn’t notice any telltale smells of gunpowder, then released the magazine and racked and locked the slide.