by Trish Reeb
Cole blew into the counseling suite to find Alex’s office door closed. No big surprise since he'd discovered her car absent as well. Finding no note in the slot to tell him when she'd be back or where she had gone, he knocked on the open door of Chandra Garrett’s office.
She sat at her desk filing her nails, smiling coyly. "Hello, Detective." Chandra rose, pushed back her chair, and scooted around the desk. "Thought you might be back," she purred.
"Down, girl. Happen to know where your suitemate is?"
"He’s out today," she shot back.
"Ms. Tamburelli."
"Oh, her," she said, waving a hand. "Not a clue." She examined her nail.
"When’s the last time you saw her?" Cole asked testily.
Chandra gloated. "I never see her. Got that?"
Cole did. He bulled his way to her desk, ripped the top sheet off a notepad, grabbed a pen, and quickly scribbled a message. He asked for an envelope. "Think you can see her long enough to give her this?" he asked, after sealing it.
Chandra narrowed her eyes. "You owe me."
He extracted his wallet and withdrew a dollar bill. "Consider us even." He tossed the money and note on her desk, then turned on his heel, leaving Chandra Garrett with her jaw dropping to the floor.
How long would it take her to tear open the envelope? He wished he'd stuck around to see her face when she read the single word he’d written: Gotcha! Now what the hell had Alex gotten herself into this time? He called her cell phone and left a message.
*
Alex skated under the green awning spanning the distance between the curb and front door of Foxworth Apartments. She moved to the driveway, making a sharp left. A gust of wind propelled her down the narrow drive, forcing her to pick up the pace. It opened into a small parking lot accommodating a few cars, all compact and inexpensive. Pay dirt. Morgan’s Neon—she’d memorized the license plate—was sandwiched between a yellow Ford Focus and a white Kia. If the cars lent testimony to the financial status of the residents, perhaps the building's facade hyperbolized the status of its tenants. The big question, did Morgan live here or did she know someone who did? And why had she left school in the middle of the day?
Cupping her hands, Alex peered into the front seat of the Neon but found nothing noteworthy. In the back, she thought she saw something. For a closer view, she skirted around the car to the other side. A dark blotch stained the back seat. Blood? Or her imagination at work? No way to tell whether it was old or new, as innocent as a spilled drink or sinister as the kidnapping of a girl. She dropped her hands and scanned the parking lot. No one around. Now what? She scuttled over to the steel backdoor, pulled the handle. Locked.
Fighting the wind this time, Alex forged up the drive to the front of the building. She climbed the stairs to the double doors painted the deep red of fine wine. She wiggled the handle. Also locked. Her eyes went to the doorbell. She pressed it, counted to sixty. No answer. She pushed the button again. After thirty counts this time, she prepared to leave.
"May I help you, miss?" a voice behind her asked.
Alex wheeled around to face an elderly gentleman in a uniform. "I’d like to speak to the manager about renting an apartment."
He smiled. "I’m afraid there's a waiting list," he said, his breath billowing in the cold air.
She smiled back, innocently, she hoped. "May I have an application?"
"Of course." The old man stepped away from the door, leaving it slightly ajar.
Alex leaned forward. If she could just get a little peek—
The doorman opened the door.
She jerked back.
"Here you go." He handed her a two page application. "Drop it in the mail slot when you’re finished," he said, pointing to the slit in the door.
"May I see one of the apartments?"
"I’m sorry. It’s against policy."
"Could I use the restroom?" she asked. Cold, she shifted from one foot to another.
"Try the office building. They have public facilities." Smiling widely, he said, "Thank you for dropping by Foxworth Apartments," and closed the door.
She couldn’t give up, not yet. Not without finding out if they had Mercedes. How had Morgan gotten inside? The back. Alex retraced her steps. She marched to the door and raised her hand to knock.
The door opened.
Alex stared at a broad chest in a tight black tee shirt over Herculean arms. Uh-oh. She turned to run, took one step, and couldn’t progress any further. He had her by the coat. Her fingers worked to unbutton it. He could have the darn thing. Just let me out of here. Too many buttons . . . .
CHAPTER 49
Cole marched into the main office. No parents or students waited to be serviced. Three secretaries sat at their desks, too busy to look up.
"Excuse me," Cole said
A middle aged woman sitting the closest to him frowned. "Yes?"
"I’m Detective Grant. I’d like to take a look at your sign-out book, please."
She nodded to the counter. "There in front of you."
Cole pulled the book closer and checked the short column of names. No Alex.
"Got a minute, Detective?" a voice said from behind.
Cole turned to face Ellery Humbarger. "No more than that."
"It’s important."
Cole followed him to his office.
Humbarger closed the door, waving Cole to a seat. He ran a hand through a full head of pewter-colored hair and collapsed into the other chair. "I should have told you this before but I’ve had a lot on my mind."
"I’m listening." Cole sat next to him.
Humbarger shifted in his seat. "The night before Taryn died, she came to see me. Agitated."
Cole leaned forward.
"I was running late for a doctor’s appointment and hated blowing her off but I had no choice." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "I couldn’t cancel." His eyes pleaded for understanding. "I told her to see McMullen." He buried his head in his hands briefly.
"Said she’d rather talk to a snake. I know the guy’s a jackass, but I had to leave. She grabbed my sleeve, begged me to listen." Humbarger paused. "I don’t know how, or even if, this is relevant, but I had to get it off my chest." He raised his head when he finished. "I feel like a heel."
"Why didn’t you tell me this before?"
His face drawn, he said, "It’s complicated."
Cole left Humbarger to deal with his guilt and marched into McMullen’s office.
The man had on his coat, ready to walk out.
"We need to talk," Cole said.
"I have a meeting downtown."
"This won’t take long."
McMullen pulled gloves from his pocket. "Make it quick."
"Why didn’t you tell me you talked to Taryn Richards the day before the murder?" Cole asked, gambling that the two had spoken.
McMullen’s face paled. He sat on the edge of his desk, eyes moving in their sockets. After a brief interlude, he spoke. "She did stop by my office, obviously troubled. But she wouldn’t talk to me. Said she wanted someone else. I referred her to security."
"Who, specifically?"
"Uh." He put his hand to his chin. A number of seconds passed. He jerked up his head. "Yolanda Morgan."
Cole had journeyed half way down the hall when McMullen called, "That’s why I never said anything. Figured she’d tell you."
First Alex. Now McMullen. If not the killer, Morgan probably knew who was, which explained her behavior the morning he questioned her.
Back in his car, he called to get the make of Morgan’s car and the license plate number. Two minutes later, he searched the premises for the absent Neon.
He called Alex’s cell phone again and still reached her voicemail: "You know the routine. Leave a message." He did, and once more told her to call. Mercedes, Alex, and Morgan all disappeared around the same time. He’d learned not to think in terms of coincidences. According to Alex, Mercedes had freaked when Morgan came to the door. Mo
rgan left. Mercedes bolted. Now Morgan and Alex had disappeared. If Alex stumbled onto something, she’d run with it. He should've known when he said to zig, she’d zag.
Forty minutes later, Cole knocked on the door to Morgan’s home.
"She ain’t there."
He followed the voice to a woman leaning out of the storm door at the neighboring house. He couldn’t make out her features, but her shoulders hunched like an old person's. He quickly crossed the lawn, stomping the snow from his shoes on the sidewalk before climbing the stairs to the porch. A pallid, prune-faced woman leaned on a cane.
"Detective Colton Grant, ma’am. Don’t happen to know where she is, do you?"
The woman shook her head. "Don’t see her much. Collects her mail on Saturday like clockwork. Otherwise, she gone." She shrugged. "Figure she at her boyfriend’s." She paused. "She’s not much to look at. Can’t tell no more, but I used to be quite a looker in my day."
"I believe it. Thanks for the tip." He escaped before she drew him into a lengthy conversation. She struck him as someone who might be lonely and lonely people could be long-winded. Another time, he might've stuck around a little longer.
Not knowing the actual nature of Winter's relationship with Morgan, it'd be foolish to contact her. One other person might be able to help. Morgan's sister. She lived a few blocks from Lincoln High and, according to Burk, verified the security guard's alibi about spending the evening together the night of the murder. Seemed too easy, too convenient, much like her story of the morning she stumbled on Taryn’s body. If Morgan had been going somewhere every other night, why not that same somewhere the night of the murder? Time to pressure the sister into telling the truth.
CHAPTER 50
Alex’s eyes fluttered open to a dark room except for the light streaming in from the hall through a small window in the door. How long had she been unconscious? One hour? Twenty-four? She sat up. Pushing up her coat sleeve to check her watch, she stared at her bare wrist. She clawed into a coat pocket and yanked out her cell phone. No signal. Not only did she not know the time, she couldn’t call Cole for help. "Crap."
Rising, she surveyed the room. She stumbled over the bumpy floor to the padded wall. Pausing at the door, she jerked the handle. Locked, confirming what she already knew. She'd been imprisoned in a padded cell, a place where years ago they kept the mentally ill. Well, she certainly qualified. Chasing after Morgan, not to mention her other actions lately, had been insane.
What had she fallen into? Who had they kept prisoner in this room before she occupied it? What did they plan to do to her? And who were ‘they’ anyway? Was Morgan here and in on it? She crossed her legs. This time she really did need to go. During the wild ride, she’d finished off the can of diet pop. Unable to relieve her bladder, she regretted it now, among other things. And she'd vowed to consider consequences. Ha! The joke was on her.
When the brute jerked her through the door into the back hall, she attempted to fight him off. This time, she hadn’t had the element of surprise on her side. Not only did Godzilla's physical condition far exceed Halvers', he had the bulging pecs to prove it.
Whatever they’d given her. put her to sleep. A drug of some—damn, she had to pee. She pounded on the door, waited to see if anyone appeared, and pounded again. Desperate, her bladder felt like it might explode. What had the inmates before her done?
A jangle of keys incited relief and anxiety. The lock clicked and Morgan stood at the open door.
"Thank goodness."
"Turn around."
Her back to Morgan, Alex said over her shoulder, "Please, I have to use the restroom," while her jailer cuffed her hands. Not unaccustomed to it, she didn't fight.
Inching into the bright lights of the gray-walled hall, Alex squinted until her eyes adjusted. The painted concrete floor hinted basement. They stopped at a door displaying a unisex sign. Morgan unfastened the cuffs and Alex dashed inside. Funny, how such a normal body function could consume one’s thoughts even in the direst of circumstances. Afterward, she washed her hands and dried them while she inspected the restroom that contained a toilet, sink, and an automatic hand dryer. She peered in the mirror. Anyone there, watching from the other side? She made a face.
Morgan opened the door.
Alex jumped. She wheeled about to confront a taser.
Morgan gestured with the weapon. "Turn around."
Alex didn't argue. She’d heard from one of her students that, if she ever had a choice between a butt-kicking and a taser, she should welcome the butt-kicking.
Cuffing her again, Morgan placed a hood over her head. It smelled of sweat and fear. "What are you doing? Get this—"
"Shut-up."
Not wanting to test Morgan’s patience, Alex closed her mouth. What's going on in this place? She thought of John Saul’s Midnight Voices. Unable to put the book down until she found out what evil lurked behind the walls of the prestigious apartment building, she had read far into the night. She shivered. Years ago, the plot seemed implausible. Today, with technology growing in leaps and bounds along with the breakthroughs in the medical field, anything seemed possible.
"Where are you taking me?" Alex asked, depending on Morgan as her seeing-eye dog.
No answer.
"Why are you doing this?"
Silence.
"Cat got your tongue?" Alex mumbled.
They made a sharp turn and halted. Now what?
A ping followed by the whoosh.
We're going for a ride. They stepped inside the elevator, the doors closed, and the car ascended. A few seconds later, it jerked to a stop and Morgan guided her out of the cab.
"Where are you taking me?"
She didn’t expect an answer nor did she get one. One, two, three, she counted the steps to distract herself from thinking too much. Thirty-two by the time they arrived at their destination.
Morgan knocked. A door opened and she steered Alex inside an apartment—at least from her perspective. When one couldn't see, one relied on other sources to determine one’s reality, including past experience. She sensed a third person. Or not. Twenty people could be staring at her and she wouldn’t know it. How did the blind face the rest of their lives unable to see? At least for her this was temporary. Anyone could do anything as long as they knew it would be short-term.
Morgan grabbed her upper arms pushing her further into the room. Unable to feel her way along, Alex had to depend on the security guard again. Ha, security guard. An oxymoron if she ever heard one.
Someone removed the handcuffs and slid Alex’s coat off. It landed with a soft flump. She massaged her wrists. Two pairs of hands guided her backward into a recliner, binding her wrists to the arms of the chair.
She thrashed her body and legs. "Don’t. Don't do this."
They each grabbed a foot, pulled off a boot, and bound her ankles to the footrests. What did they have in mind? Torturing me? What had that thought been earlier? That anyone could withstand anything as long as it didn’t last forever? Obviously, torture hadn't been part of her thinking process.
"Call me when you're finished," Morgan said.
The door closed.
"What did she mean by that?" Alex asked. No answer. "Hello-oh." Silence. "If you need information, why don’t you ask me?" More silence. "I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing."
Alex tried to put a name to the clinking, scraping, rustling, and banging, but couldn't. Was she in some kind of torture chamber? She shivered, even before the cold metal touched her hand. A second later, withdrawn. Back again. Withdrawn. Like a game. Touch. Withdraw.
On guard, she waited. When she least expected it, the object returned. Her body convulsed. She strove hard not to react, but her senses betrayed her every time. Alex hoped for a clue that would reveal the person as a man or woman—a swell of a breast or firm muscle touching her arm or shoulder. Nothing, no hint so far, as to the tormentor’s gender. She didn’t like not knowing. How did she get herself into these messes? Because, y
ou don't think. You act.
Her captor pushed Alex's sleeve up. Stroking her arm using the same object, she thought but didn't know for sure, it barely touched her skin. S/he lifted her sweater and touched her stomach this time, moving the thing back and forth over and over.
The stroking ceased. What next? Seconds ticked by. Anxiety grew. R-r-r-rip. Her pant leg split, cool air snaking up her shin, her knee, to her thigh. "Hey!" Another tear and the other leg was bared. One more slice and her pants fell away. A perfectly good pair of wool crepe trousers ruined.
"That'll cost you two hundred bucks," Alex said, ignoring the little voice telling her to shut her trap.
Would she be stripped down to her underwear? Her birthday suit? She wracked her brain to remember what underclothes she'd worn. Alex, why do you care? It's better than thinking about what might come next. You mean like you're in the process of being molested? And possibly killed. What exactly could she to do about it anyway? Strapped to a barber shop chair, a hood over my head, guess I'm out of options. She almost laughed. Here she sat, her life on the line, and she carried on a conversation with herself inside her head.
Her fuchsia cashmere sweater shorn next, she hoped and prayed she could keep her skin intact.
CHAPTER 51
On the way to his car following his talk with Morgan’s sister, Cole’s cell phone rang. Darrel calling, with the lab results, he hoped.
"What’d you find?" Cole asked, opening the car door and sliding in.
"Want the full menu or the main entree?"
"We're not talking dinner party." Cole tugged the notebook from his suit pocket.
"Damiana tincture."
"Never heard of it," Cole said. "Spell it."
Darrel complied. "It's from the leaf of a desert plant found in North Central America and Africa. The alkaloids in it stimulate the nerves and sex organs, increasing circulation," he said. "Combined with its muscle relaxant properties, Damiana is a genuine aphrodisiac producing a euphoria lasting for one to two hours."
That explained Alex’s bizarre behavior. "Anything else I should know?"